


Super Rich Kids

by trishjames



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Abusive Drug Use, Angst, Angst with a happy ending!, Anti-Hero, Auror Harry Potter, Betrayal, Bisexual Draco Malfoy, Burglary, Candaulism, Character Study, Charity Organisations, Conspiracy, Depression, Despicable Behaviour, Discussion of Anarchy in the Loosest Sense, Draco Malfoy-centric, Draco/Others - Freeform, Drama, Ended Romantic Relationships, Existentialism, Falling In Love, Family, Fist Fights, Frenemies, Fundraisers, Galas, Garden parties, Gaslighting, Getting Together, Government, Haute couture, Heterosexual Sex, Hurt/Comfort, Immorality, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, Jealousy, Junior Chief Prosecutor Draco Malfoy, LCDrarry, LCDrarry 2020, M/M, Manipulative Behaviour, Melodrama, Muggle Culture, Muggle high fashion, Murder, Mystery, Nihilism, Politics, Possible Infidelity Due to Unclear Relationship Status, Post-Second War, Prejudice, Privilege, Problematic Concepts, Pureblood Culture, Pureblood Elitism, Recreational Drug Use, Secrets, Slow Burn, Social Season, Spoiled Kids Trying to Be Adults, Summer, Threesomes, Thriller, Very Brief Instance of Suicidal Ideation, Vigilantism, Wedding Engagements, Wizengamot, cover ups, creepy behaviour, dark humour, debutantes, dog-napping, problematic behaviour, seriously so much angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-15
Updated: 2020-06-15
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:27:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 81,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24352099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trishjames/pseuds/trishjames
Summary: Draco Malfoy has become disillusioned by the glitz and glamour of the scandalous lives of the Post-Second Wizarding War Pureblood Elite. Enter: one existential crisis, one group of thieving cynical friends, and several terrible,terribledecisions.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 87
Kudos: 354
Collections: Lights Camera Drarry 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **Prompt:** Bling Ring. “The Slytherins are rich, bored socialites and Draco has especially sticky fingers. Then he makes the mistake of stealing from a wizarding celebrity, Harry Potter.” 
> 
> **A/N:** I’d like to take this moment to thank the Mods for posting this story and for your kindness and patience with me. You are so appreciated.
> 
> I’d like to thank a few people here. This story has been through a lot, and it would not be ready to go in this state were it not for my amazing beta, A. They swooped in on the 11th hour and worked some serious magic to make sure this story was coherent and completed. Thank you for your amazing help, support and kindness.
> 
> I’d also like to take time out to thank W and G-- you both initially provided support on this story a million years ago and provided the foundation I needed to build on it. Thank you for your help, and I hope you enjoy rereading this in its new state!
> 
>  **About this film:** I didn’t care too much for it, but when I saw the prompt, I immediately knew I had to claim it! I absolutely LOVE the idea of entitled Slytherins coping post-war with their own personal problems while being their obnoxious, messy, glamourous selves. I wanted an angsty mix of Bling Ring, Cruel Intentions, GG and _Bright Lights, Big City_. OR at least that was my original intention! The story sort of...took on a crazy life of its own, with so many twists and turns, I literally just had to take a passenger seat to the craziness. That being said, please buckle up and enjoy the bizarre ride!
> 
>  **Additional note:** This story is angsty at times as it deals with drug usage, depression, (at times arguably misplaced) anger, and immoral decision-making. Everything has been tagged appropriately. This story is very Draco-centric with a dose of melodrama and drarry evolving throughout/on the outskirts. It’s not everyone’s cup of tea, so if that’s the case, you’ve been given a heads-up in this note. But I do hope you give it a shot. 
> 
> Thank you! x.

_A million one, a million two…_

_A hundred more will never do._

**_Super Rich Kids_ /Frank Ocean**

The Obscura Children’s Orphanage Fundraiser is in full swing when Draco arrives at central Diagon Alley’s newest hotspot, a rooftop terrace restaurant called _The Pearl._

Despite all the exulting from Mother and Pansy about snagging the _perfect_ venue for this event, Draco finds the bucolic decor abhorrent with its pink (though Pansy would argue _mauve_ ), yellow, and white chichi decorations, making one of the newest, most expensive restaurants in the newly rebuilt community loud, tacky, and off-putting. Gauzy pink tulle fabric entwined with yellow silk coils along the terrace bannister. Hard-to-read handwritten frilly lace-edged menus are carefully placed in the centre of each table. Nauseating hot-pink tablecloths rest upon the tables. It all reads a bit overmuch and too in the vein of Madam Puddifoot’s to Draco. It’s as if that horrid little tea shop has exploded all over the venue’s intended French Farmhouse theme—pink _or maybe mauve_ — covers rustic solid oak, moss, and twigs, an overabundance of hideous exotic flowers explodes from all the venue’s available nooks and crannies.

Draco feels smothered.

To top off the horrific decor, there are at least two or three child-aged orphans being paraded around, enticing those who were on the wrong side of the war to dig deep into their coin purses, and not for the good of their heart but for a mention in next week’s issue of _Wizard Society Now_. The various acts of posturing from this community disgusts him just as much as the younger Purebloods crowing over their parents having wings of hospitals and orphanages named after them, or their legacies at the Ministry or St Mungo’s. Nepotism is alive and well postwar.

He’s sick of being around these insipid Purebloods, finding that nothing shocks him anymore, and more importantly, nothing he intentionally does truly shocks this warped little community anymore _._ He’s been branded by them in more than one way now, and still he needs to participate in such frivolities as his mother is forever unamendable to his desire for a quiet afternoon at home. Alone.

It _is_ her first sponsored event of the year, though.

Draco pushes through the crowd, making sure to match the scowls that follow in his wake as he heads towards the edge of the terrace to stare out across the uneven landscape of Diagon Alley’s rooftops.

He wonders what it would be like to… _jump_...

...end the quiet void that seems to have taken up residence in the centre of his chest since the end of the war.

_Is this really it? Is this all that my existence from here on has to offer?_

He’s been reading Muggle literature to help him understand the lack of feeling that’s embodied him. He doesn’t care if his friends scoff at his current ambitions. He couldn't give a hooting owl’s arse. But no amount of Nietzsche, Sartre, or Camus can help him grasp the contingency of his own meaninglessness.

He’s interrupted from his maudlin thoughts by a nudge to the side. Draco tilts his head slightly to the left to catch Bitty in his peripheral vision.

“Enjoying the party, Draco?” she asks, a look of boredom on her face in a way that would give Pansy’s a run for its Galleons.

Draco bites back a grumble at having been interrupted by _Bitty_ of all people. Merlin. Where does he even _start_ with Bitty? Draco can’t help but think about her not so humble beginnings.

A little background about Bitty:

**Beatrice “Bitty” Marietta von Fürstenberg-Agnelli**

An 18-year-old Pureblood socialite and a recent graduate from Beauxbatons. Her father, Alberto Angelo Juliano Agnelli VI, was able to escape both Wars by moving his entire family back to Italy in 1978 (after several generations of Agnelli’s in England). Though not part of the Sacred Twenty-Eight (no doubt due to the family’s horrific and unsavoury connections to Mussolini’s National Fascist Party during the early 20th century), they are second only to the Malfoys as the richest Pureblood family, owners of the largest and most popular global cauldron distribution company ( _A.A.A._ or shorthand, _Triple A)._

Her mother, Brünnhilde “Hilde” Von Fürstenberg (notoriously rumoured to be, _maybe_ _distantly,_ related to a famous Muggle fashion designer with the same surname—but this may just be post-war pandering towards inclusivity) was a German-born Pureblood, a retired Mezzo-soprano opera singer, _and_ former model.

Bitty, with her gorgeous olive complexion, ridiculously long legs, long straight dark brown hair, mischievous dark brown eyes, and model’s physique, wasn’t too hard to fall in love with.

Which happened to be the case for Draco’s very handsome best mate:

**Blaise Efe Giovanni Zabini**

Draco’s 21-year-old best mate, simply put, is the most gorgeous man Draco has ever had the pleasure of knowing. He’s taller than Draco, with broad muscled shoulders and eyes and skin that reminds him of the unblemished onyx ring Narcissa always wears on her index finger. Draco loves his plump lips, high cheekbones, and perfectly sharp, chiselled jawline.

Blaise is also as straight as an arrow to Draco’s dismay. They shared one kiss between each other, and that was in Fourth Year after the Yule Ball when Draco confessed his horrible crush on him. Blaise kissed him after the confession and immediately pulled away, his dark eyes flickering with disbelief and fear. He had then said, “I just _can’t_ - _I’m not-I will never be_ interested in you or any bloke _that way!_ ”

Miraculously, they bounced back from that awkward experience and remained close friends.

Blaise spent the past Autumn and Winter charming the knickers off Bitty from Milano to Catanzaro. After several months of international _Wizard_ _Society_ pages reporting on their hot, whirlwind romance, Bitty convinced Blaise to let her come back with him to England _engaged_ and just in time for the start of the Season. And with the start of the Pureblood Elite holding their balls, dinner parties and charity events, comes the 240th anniversary of the Jewell Ball for Débutantes, of which Bitty wants to be a part of.

 _Must_ be a part of.

 _Will_.

Her parents are _sure_ of it, because Daddy Agnelli and Mummy von Fürstenberg-Agnelli arrived shortly after their daughter. Now back in town after 23-years on the continent, the Agnelli family are quickly re-establishing their name and connections within “proper” British Pureblood Society. It’s as if they never left. Daddy Agnelli is buying up property in Diagon Alley as if real estate is going out of style and Mummy von Fürstenberg-Agnelli now holds a position on the Board of Trustees for St Mungo’s. She’s also going head-to-head with Draco’s mother for the role of Chairwoman of the Jewell Ball Débutante Committee.

Draco knows all of this information and more not just because his mother is currently in a pissing contest with Bitty’s mother, oh no, not just that. There are a few reasons why Draco is privy to this information, the prominent one being: Draco fucked Bitty somewhere between Rome and Naples. And the girl just loves to talk when her mouth isn’t otherwise occupied with cock.

“Draco, did you hear me? Are you enjoying yourself?” Bitty asks, drawing him from his thoughts, once again nudging him in his side.

Draco tilts his head back, once more taking in the wide landscape of buildings before closing his eyes briefly on a sigh. “Do I look like I’m enjoying this shit party?” he asks before fixing his gaze on the younger girl.

She nods and hands Draco a glass of whisky. It’s then that Draco notices the half-full bottle tucked under her arm. It’s a rule that during Social Season waiters replace the duties of house-elves during events. For aesthetic purposes and not entirely because of Granger’s new piece of legislation currently being debated in the Wizengamot to end house-elf usage. He wonders what Bitty did to lift a bottle from one of them. He waits until she’s taken her first sip to sip his own. One can never fully trust an Agnelli. After all, their family motto is _non ducor, duco._

_I am not led, I lead._

They’re all a bunch of stubborn, narcissistic buggers.

“It’ll do you some good to smile so your poor mamma can be happy. She worked hard on this amazing event,” she says in a saccharine voice, a hand now resting on Draco’s elbow. He carefully pulls away. “You can at least pretend to care about orphans.” She drains the liquid with a small frown. “I hate whisky.”

“And yet you still drink it, but that’s just _you_ , isn’t it?” he quips, taking the bottle of whisky from her to refill both of their glasses before shoving the bottle back into her arms.

He knows Bitty is miserable just like the rest of them, but she’s playing the game, too. Maybe even better than them. She’s finally achieving the status she’s wanted since finding out her family was moving back to Britain. He loosens his tie and then gestures towards an intricately-carved bench for them to sit on.

Bitty lowers herself onto it gracefully, crossing one toned leg over the other, the beadwork of her dangling red-soled stiletto heel glinting in the afternoon light.

“I already can’t keep up with Mother’s social calendar and the Season just started. I was mentally preparing myself for a lie-in when she announced that I’m to show my face at this bloody fundraiser. I just wanted a quiet day in. Maybe have a hooker or two for dinner,” Draco says, his lips twitching up in a smirk as he folds himself into the space beside Bitty and rummages through his pocket for his pack of cigarettes.

Bitty’s eyes narrow. “You _,_ with hookers? I would expect a high-class escort at least, Draco.” Bitty sighs. “I suppose it’s true what everyone is saying, then. You really are hard up for companionship these days,” she says, her voice teasing as her dark eyes twinkle with mirth.

“I never thought you’d succumb to this society’s petty gossip,” Draco says, dully. “Now I know what Blaise sees in you.” _Basicness_ , Draco thinks.

Bitty laughs, the sound cruel and sharp as she lifts her left hand to stroke the long column of her neck. The gesture shows off the 4-carat pear-cut diamond engagement ring Blaise shoved on her finger before they’d all used the designated Portkey back to London in Italy.

“What can I say? You and Blaise both have similar, _impeccable_ taste in women.”

Draco’s lip further curls into a twisted grimace at the memory of the three of them standing in the foyer of Bitty’s villa in Rome, ready to head back to London as Blaise pulled out the ring and said, “I suppose this is what you want, even though you fucked this arsehole.”

When Draco agreed to join Blaise in Rome during the Winter, he found himself attracted to Bitty and her flippant, flirtatious nature. Draco loved that she was freshly out of school and ready to take on those around her. And although she made him nervous with her flirting, Draco admired that she offered Slytherin traits he was conditioned to find enticing—all the wealth, power, and intelligence without ever having been in the House. He adored her soft, titillating accent, smooth olive skin, and wide almond-shaped eyes.

They spent an evening alone together in the villa, as Blaise was called away for business concerning his mother’s corporation ties in Venice. Bitty cracked open a bottle of Château Margaux from 1990, giggling along the way about how naughty she was going through her parents’ cellar without them present. Draco was annoyed then with her flirting—the little touches that grazed his elbow and knee as they sat together and sipped from the full-bodied red, the low huskiness of her accented voice, the sweet floral scent of her perfume as she pressed against him just right. The more she spoke, the more she giggled, the more she touched, the more Draco found himself inching closer to her.

He didn’t recall the Portkey. She had it ready for them minutes after he slammed her against the nearest wall, his hands gripping her hips. He remembers the taste of her thickly wine-coated tongue as he fisted her short beige trench dress in his hot hands. He tried to yank it clean off her body, ripping the flimsy material in his frantic need to touch her bare skin.

Later on, as they lay wrapped around each other with the first glimpses of sunrise stretching across their naked bodies, she announced that they were somewhere near Naples. Draco hadn’t cared. He couldn’t stop thinking about how she frantically wrapped her long legs around his head, her pointed nails scraping his scalp hard enough to draw blood as he licked her from clit to anus the night before, or how she cried out when he’d fucked her against the bedroom wall, and then again on the bed when she slipped a finger in his arse right before he climaxed. It was the kind of chaotic, messy sex he had grown to absolutely love. And he hadn’t had it in a very, _very_ long time.

But Draco wasn’t very good at keeping secrets from Blaise. After all, this was not the first time he and Blaise had slept with the same woman and somewhere in the depths of his soul he knew Blaise would forgive him, so he took a chance. Several days had passed after coming clean about shagging Bitty, and Blaise pulled him aside to admit that he was in love with her and wanted to be with her.

Draco fell back into the shadows then, his one-off with Bitty just a memory to chart away, like he’s done with every other miserable, selfish mistake he’s ever made in his life.

Draco lights his cigarette with the tip of his wand. Her comment about him and Blaise liking the same type of woman lingers in the air and Draco shrugs. There’s no love lost between him and Bitty. But insecurity grips him like always, and he finds himself saying, “Why yes, we do, but I suppose you’re more inclined to the Zabini Charm than the Malfoy one, am I correct, _bellissima_?”

She shoots him a sharp smile. “I’m sorry, _mia dolce metà;_ I just don’t have the fight in me. You come with too big a competition pool,” she says, voice contrite.

“Don’t fret it, love,” he drawls, holstering his wand and leaning back on the bench to cross his legs. He places his now-empty tumbler on the arm of the bench to use as an ashtray and taps his cigarette against the mouth of it. He takes a long drag, watching as the smoke slowly emerges in thick tendrils that curl out in front of his face. “It’s true what everyone is saying about me. Nowadays I can hardly stomach the company of anyone.” Draco glances over, images of her long legs draped over his shoulders, ravenous moans, and sweat-slick body coming to the forefront of his mind. “Though, if you’re terribly bored, I may be amenable to a more stimulating way to spend our time together right now.”

“Hush, you,” Bitty reproves. “Blaise will have your throat slit if he hears you talking like that now.” Her expression is playful as she shifts her thick hair over onto one shoulder in that care-free smooth way of hers. Draco wonders if the idea of them getting caught by her boyfriend in a delicate position, well, now _fiancé_ , still makes her wet, but that train of thought stops when she mutters, “He would hate to share you again.”

Draco doesn’t know what to think about that—Bitty talks so much bosh that he’s unable to follow what’s true and what’s false from her mouth—so instead he plucks her half-empty glass from her well-manicured hand and downs the rest of her liquor. “Don’t worry. There will be no next time. Though, our time together will be remembered fondly as my gravest mistake in life, ever. And that’s saying something.”

Bitty’s lips curl upward. As they part, no doubt with something cutting, she’s interrupted.

“You can’t smoke up here.”

They both look up at once to see Pansy standing before them. Draco mentally makes a low whistle of appreciation as his eyes roam over his other best friend.

Pansy, like many young Pureblood socialites, adopted a more Muggle-influenced approach to her apparel. Nowadays, Draco can call a Louis Vuitton fit when he sees it. Her long-sleeved, fitted high-neck white mini dress is as fabulous as it is severe, with its small square and triangular cut-out pattern running down the front and sides of her dress. Draco can almost view the hint of her pale flesh against the fabric. A thin, black velvet ribbon loops along the thin slits of the high-neck portion, and her short stature is a tower in tall black stiletto ankle boots, the heels so thin Draco’s surprised she’s able to balance on them. Her short, sharp black bob, black prominent eyebrows, and pursed nude lips makes her a formidable figure.

Draco rolls his eyes and kills his cigarette in his glass. He can practically taste the nervous, hopeful energy oozing off Bitty now that Pansy is here.

“Pansy! So lovely to see you!” Bitty exclaims. Her face splits in what Draco can honestly label as a forced smile as she quickly stands, her arms spreading as wide as her smile to hug Pansy.

Bitty places a slow, showy kiss on each of Pansy’s cheeks. Draco covers his incredulity with a soft cough at the thinly-veiled look of disgust Pansy shoots him over Bitty’s shoulder. He knows that Bitty only suffers Pansy’s rude behaviour because she needs a Pureblood woman who has already come out in society to be her mentor to qualify for the upcoming Jewell Ball. She’s also the previous It-Girl, having worn the proverbial crown up until Blaise announced his engagement to Bitty.

Pansy knows exactly how to navigate the Pureblood Socialite set and everything important that comes with it—from bloodlines to who is shagging whom. The latter is often used as a means to manipulate the people around her to her benefit. The most recent titillating bit of news from her ever-expanding dossier of affairs involves the Fawley matriarch Imogen and Marcus Flint, of all people. Pansy doesn’t spread rumours, but a well-placed offhand comment in front of Imogen and her husband earned Pansy a position on Imogen’s committee for the Society for the Support of Squibs. But Pansy’s talents always come up short with Bitty and it frustrates the hell out of her.

Blaise had recommended Pansy to mentor Bitty despite Draco’s attempts to dissuade his decision. Of the prominent Pureblood families with women out in society, Daphne had already promised herself to Astoria, Millicent refused to be anyone’s mentor (but also her family didn’t have the desirable lure or political pull, being a half-blood herself). The Shafiqs were also unavailable, along with the Shacklebolts, the Flints, the Selwyns, Fawleys, what’s left of the Rowles. And even the Muggle-loving Abbotts were promised to other debs or were simply too afraid to take on Pureblood society’s current reigning queen.

And it’s not Pansy’s fault that she’s being unpleasant about the whole thing. She has a valid reason...Blaise broke up with her to pursue Bitty. Pansy, wary of her own social standing after such a blow to her ego and with the current gossip milling about in their circle, relented to Blaise and agreed to mentor Bitty. The reality of what mentoring Pureblood Society’s current It-Girl would mean for her was two-fold: people would applaud her for how she handled her breakup with Blaise, and they also wouldn’t call her bitter for passing on her It-Girl status to someone slightly younger, prettier, and richer.

To Draco, the whole ordeal is a ridiculous display of fucking Pureblood nonsense.

Pansy hums as she looks Bitty up and down. “Well. Don’t you look adorable today. Ah, photo!” Pansy immediately spins on her heel, her arm loosely wrapping around Bitty’s waist. Draco rises to his feet gracefully to stand beside Bitty. He shoves his hands into the front of his bespoke trousers with a grunt, his head cocking to the side as his eyes flit over the other attendees.

“Marvellous! Just marvellous! Bitty, can I just get you to turn to the left a little? Excellent! Brilliant!” the photographer exclaims. His nasally voice coupled with the flash of the camera feels like nails stabbing Draco’s temple.

“Are you quite done?” Draco snaps.

“Yes, Mr Malfoy, of course,” the photographer says before cheekily snapping one more picture and slinking off.

“Pansy, I was just going to ask you what your availability is like next week—” Bitty starts.

“Very busy—”

“—I was hoping to go over the regulations for the débutante dinner—”

“Draco!” Pansy exclaims, pivoting towards him. “It slipped my mind, my reason for coming over here. I’m to bring you to Narcissa. Right away.” She then glances back at Bitty. “Do send me an owl about it, darling; I’m sure I can find some time in my schedule to respond to your questions.”

Bitty flushes. “Yes, right. Of course.”

Pansy smiles. “Good girl. We’re off now.” She then curls a hand around Draco’s arm, yanking him away through the crowd.

“Well, that wasn’t awkward at all,” Draco quips.

“Shut up. I’m so tired of that beastly tart.”

Draco chuckles. “She’s not all bad,” he lies.

No matter how coy and humble she plays with Pansy, Bitty has a bloodthirst for ruling their social circle now that she’s in London and is the future Mrs Zabini. Draco’s familiar with that rushed need for power, and he sees it in Bitty. She’s going to be dangerous _._

“Enough about her,” Pansy snaps and rolls her eyes. “Now, I know you’re in a mood. You used to walk around as if you were going to be the lead character in someone else’s novel, darling. So much _vivacity!_ So much _panache!_ It’s rather pathetic how adrift you are nowadays with boredom and self-pity.” Pansy pouts.

Draco flinches. When it rains, it pours when it comes to Pansy’s barbed assessments of him.

“Speak for yourself.”

A sour look spills across her face. “I have every right to be a mess right now. Blaise is marrying a creepy social-climber, darling! Let a girl mourn the end of a great man. I don’t know how he can stand her yappy little mouth, let alone sleep with her.”

Draco remains silent. He’s yet to tell Pansy about his one-off with Bitty for fear that she may throttle him to death.

Because it’s the fucking Season everywhere Draco looks, he sees the young and old, the wealthy and the terribly fit and fashionable. Parasites. All of them. The irony that he’s just another, hotter version of the people in this crowd is not lost on him.

He’s a shitty little parasite, too.

As they manoeuvre through the crowd, Draco relaxes when his gaze lands on his mother.

His mother has never looked so radiant. Her white-blonde hair flows down her back – a far cry from the tight buns and chignons of her past. Her usual severe expression is rosy, a perky smile on her face as she sips from a flute of champagne, her free arm wrapped tightly around her lover’s waist.

“Draco,” Narcissa says when she catches sight of him. “Oh, darling, I’m so happy you made it.”

These last several months Mother has been in high spirits after finalising her divorce to Lucius all while enjoying her engagement. After twenty-five years of marriage, one child, an unrecognisable sex life (as Mother has stressed to Draco numerous times that she is still _young_ and desirable) _,_ two wars, and Lucius’s thirty-year sentence in Azkaban, Narcissa Malfoy was ready to live.

She was looking forward to using her maiden name again, and more importantly, she was looking forward to relishing her very public engagement to her fiancée, the love of her life, Blaise’s mother.

Speaking of Blaise’s mother, an introduction is necessary:

**Adanya Oluwaseyi Patience Zabini**

Lovingly called Dany by close friends and family, Blaise’s mother is not only one of the most gorgeous women in Pureblood Society, she is a rising Media Tycoon. Dany’s recent late-husband was the sole owner of the WWN, and due to his unfortunate passing, his estate and title were bequeathed to her. Dany is at the helm of the social change now taking root in the Wizarding World, all while dragging the Malfoy name back up from the trenches of hell.

The Wizarding World has adopted a new, relaxed view to Muggle trends and fashion, and she’s leading the WWN to do the same by opening up telecommunications between the Wizarding World and the Muggle World. They have been exposed to pop culture– from music to telly. It’s all quite extraordinary. Draco admires Dany, not just for the benefit of their families coming together, but for her kindness, love, and above all else, strength. He knows it hasn’t been an easy ride for her managing the WWN these last three years. He knows, has seen, and been told by Dany herself that as a black woman not born with a silver-spoon in her mouth, she has to work twice as hard to get half of the respect wizards in the business get.

Sometimes Draco wishes he had met Blaise’s father, who had died when Blaise was just a few months old, if only to see any traces of the man that Blaise adopted. It’s hard to imagine another person involved in the creation of Blaise as he is the spitting image of his mother – from high cheekbones to tall stature. Her hair is cropped nearly to the scalp, ears and long neck always adorned in the most gorgeous coral beads.

Blaise claims that his father was the only man Dany had ever loved, and she had only married so soon after his death to support her family during such a dark time in Wizarding history. She had been propositioned by many suitors from the Sacred Twenty-Eight but had turned them all down, not wanting to be aligned with Voldemort and his followers. Mr Zabini was a handsome Italian businessman with dealings in oil and no interest in the Death Eaters, whose last name Dany would keep. Contrary to popular belief, Mr Zabini had died from a splinching accident. Dany would then go on to marry five other men who would die in freakish ways, earning her a Black Widow title.

But now she was set to marry Narcissa, the woman she’s been in love with since meeting nearly two decades ago. Draco couldn’t be happier for them, both finally finding some peace with each other.

Draco presses a soft kiss to his mother’s cheek. “I’m sorry I didn’t come to see you sooner; I was held up.” He then reaches out for Dany to kiss her too.

“Well,” Dany starts, Blaise’s cheeky grin flashing across her face. “You’re here now. We were worried you’d stay locked away at home.”

“Not today, unfortunately,” he says sourly.

“Don’t sulk, darling,” Narcissa says, pressing her lips against his ear. “Too many reporters to be caught making such a face.”

Draco sighs. He’s bloody tired of having to perform for an audience. It’s been a marathon adhering to socially-acceptable behaviours in post-war Wizarding Britain. Sometimes he wants to start a riot, burn some buildings down, and scream out a fierce Fuck You to the Pureblood establishment.

“Of course, Mother.”

“Pansy, were you able to talk to Bitty about the Jewell Ball pre-dinner arrangements?” Dany asks.

“She’s going to owl me for a time to meet,” Pansy says absently, her eyes roving over the delicate pastries laid out on the table beside them. She plucks up a tiny chocolate éclair.

“She’s lucky to have you,” Dany says with a hum of approval. “You’ve grown into such an extraordinary young lady, I don’t think I tell you that enough.”

Pansy beams. It was no secret that Dany dotes on Pansy, and was quite distraught when she learned that Blaise broke up with her. In the privacy of her own home, she constantly refers to Bitty as ‘that silly girl’ whenever Blaise brings her up.

“Thank you, Adanya, you’re much too kind,” Pansy says, her gaze lifting to Dany’s as her lashes flutter. “I’ve been meaning to tell you about my upcoming exhibition of some rather lovely abstract screen prints I just know you’ll love…”

“Darling,” Narcissa says, her hand finding a place in the small of Draco’s back after a sip from her flute of champagne. “Do you mind telling me why it’s been a fortnight since I’ve seen you? What’s going on?”

“I’m fine,” Draco says sullenly.

“You’re not. The rumour mill is fruitful. You’d do well to remember that.”

“Fuck the rumour mill.”

“Shhh,” she says in such a soothing way that it takes Draco back to his childhood.

He’s suddenly six years old, his duvet covering half his face as he tells his mother of the monsters under his bed as she leans over him and eases his fears with soft, reassuring words. “If you need to say something, I am here. I know the Shafiqs have been absolutely ghastly, but chin up, my beautiful boy, there are people out there who will be worthy of your time and love.”

Draco falters, his sour mood dissipating in the face of his mother’s firm, warm presence. He shrinks into himself. “I wish I had your optimism, mum,” he says faintly.

“You _do._ You are mine _,_ and we are strong _._ I promise you, this will pass.”

Draco takes a moment to look into eyes so much like his own. Her smiling face causes his tensions to bleed away, and he returns the first genuine smile of the day. “Thanks, mum.”


	2. Chapter 2

_No use looking out._

_It’s within that brings that lonely feeling._

_Understand that when you leave here_

_You’ll be clear, among the better men. Alone again._

_Alone again. Alone again. Alone again._

_Alone._

**_Chamber of Reflection_ /Mac DeMarco**

Draco holds his breath as he dunks his face into the ice-cold water stoppered in his sink. He keeps his head under until every muscle in his body tenses, begging for air. When he pulls free from the water it’s with a sharp gasp, the cool air striking his face like a slap.

He’s awake now.

As he studies himself in the mirror, he turns his head from side-to-side, relishing in the fact that he’s no longer the gaunt boy he was during the war and trials. Though still angular, his cheeks are fuller now and his eyes are brighter. Merlin, he had barely skated by a sentence that would have rivalled Lucius’s. Had it not been for the testimony from Potter, he’s sure he would be rotting alongside his father right now.

Since puberty, Draco has only seen Lucius in his face, in the set of his shoulders, in the lankiness of his limbs. He never wanted to see anything beyond the very perfect image of the greatest man on earth. He remembers how before Hogwarts he would beg his parents to let him grow out his hair, like Father. But they would tell him long hair on a Pureblood male child was taboo and that Draco would have to wait until he reached majority. He’ll now never grow his hair out beyond his jaw, ever.

He doesn’t see Lucius in the angular lines of his face anymore, not like how he used to, not how he used to crave to see it. Now, he sees Mother in his strong jaw, the wideness of his mouth, the slant of his eyes, and the pointiness at the very tip of his nose. His grey eyes aren’t hard and cold, but intelligent, if more sad than usual.

He can also see traits not borrowed from his parents—his slightly darker eyebrows, the cupid-bow shape of his top lip, and the scattering of freckles on his right shoulder.

When Draco had learned how to let go of his father, both in real life and within, he realised what true loss felt like. What’s a boy without his Father? What’s a man without a role model?

Draco may not know how to measure the value of his life, but he knows it doesn’t rest on his Father’s approval anymore.

When he’s dressed and ready to go, he stands before the mirror, once more reminding himself where Lucius Malfoy isn’t—right here before him. This isn’t what Lucius Malfoy gets to claim as his sole creation anymore.

“Time to go play grown-up, you beautiful bastard,” his reflection says to him with a wink. Draco smirks.

It’s his first day of work at the Ministry.

\---

“You’re late. How can you be late on your first day? They’re really not going to like that. Nope.”

Barbara wraps one bejewelled hand around Draco’s forearm, tugging him down the short hall towards the Wizengamot’s main offices. She’s an older woman, probably in her late 60s, with a thick Jamaican accent, shocking white hair, and rather large, acid green horn-rimmed glasses attached to a thin gold chain wrapped around the back of her neck. Her cardigan is a weird, fuzzy material, the colour matching her glasses, and her sensible black pencil skirt nearly reaches her ankles. For such a tiny lady, her grip is ironclad.

“I wouldn’t be surprised if they sack you.”

Draco flinches. “You can’t be serious!” he exclaims, throwing his free hand up before inclining his head downward to peer at her somewhat powdery face, the rouge on her cheeks vibrant.

She doesn’t look at him or say anything as she propels him down the short corridor right off from her own station, her hard-brown eyes searching for Draco’s room number.

When they reach a plain brown door with a small gold plaque reading, 634 D. Malfoy, Junior Prosecutor _,_ something odd flutters in Draco’s chest. It’s an old feeling, one he hasn’t felt in a while that isn’t also attached to smugness or entitlement.

Pride. Honest to goodness pride.

He’s worked hard for this.

The door swings open and he’s pushed inside by his new, rather heavy-handed, assistant.

“You have about two minutes before the Chief Wizengamot Prosecutor comes down here looking to serve your head up on a platter, young man. If I were you, I’d take these forms here.” She shoves a small stack of parchment into his hands. “Give me your briefcase and mosey on down to the courtroom to get a start on the day’s cases being heard for arraignment and bail.”

Draco scoffs. “It’s not my job to deal with such meagre issues.”

Barbara stares up at him, an incredulous look blooming across her face. Draco cringes.

“Oh, you _must_ want to be sacked! Pickney nowadays! Thinking you’re big people knowing what’s best, but no, you _don’t_ ,” Barbara says sharply, tugging Draco’s briefcase from under his arm. “Off with you now!”

“But I haven’t read—”

“—do it in the courtrooms!”

“—and what about my coffee?”

Barbara freezes, her eyes narrowing. “’Memba me tell you this now, Mr Malfoy— I’m no house-elf. Get your own bloody coffee. Now off with you!” she says, twirling him right back out of his office, the sheaf of parchment clenched in his hands.

“Merlin,” Draco mutters, shaking his head, making his way towards the Wizengamot Courtrooms. He feels like he has whiplash.

“Welcome to the Wizengamot, Mr Malfoy!” Barbara calls out after him cheerfully, leaning out the doorway of his office, and making Draco’s cheeks heat as the people clambering about the corridors turn to stare at him.

\-----

“What are you doing here?”

Well, this is going to be bloody weird, Draco thinks as he stands a bit taller. And here he thought he was going to luck out and have the lift all to himself as he travels to the International Magical Office of Law. It’s just his luck that on his first day of work, in this massive establishment, he runs into none other than Harry fucking Potter.

Potter steps on, hair a wild mess atop his head, his very green eyes growing wide behind his ridiculously round glasses. He isn’t in his Auror regalia, instead wearing a white shirt, the top button undone, and the sleeves pushed up. His black trousers are fitted just tight enough that Draco finds himself appreciating Potter’s arse, and his tall black boots are no doubt dragonhide. A beige leather wand holder is looped under his arms. Loaded on one side is his wand, the other glints with an intricately carved handle of what Draco assumes is a knife. Even with the casual fit, Potter looks positively dangerous, feral, even.

“I could ask you the same thing,” Draco quips.

Potter shoots him a bewildered look. “I work here.”

“Oh, well, will you look at that, so do I. Someone has to oversee the political and legal changes underway in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.”

“You think that’s you _?”_ Potter snorts, shifting beside him. “D’you fashion yourself Chief Warlock or the Supreme Mugwump one of these days?”

Draco stiffens. “Would that be so outlandish?” he snaps back, a nerve twitching in his jaw. Of course, he sees himself moving up the ladder, who doesn’t? “It’s my first day on the job.”

Then something insane happens.

Potter smiles at him.

“It’s not outlandish,” Potter says, that bright smile still on his face as his eyes roam the length of Draco’s body as the lift announces that they’ve reached Level Two. Potter steps out and quickly turns back round.

“Welcome aboard, Malfoy. I’ll see you around.” The lift zips away before Draco can strangle out a single word.

\----

When Draco enters Pansy’s small art gallery, located a hop and a skip away from Diagon Alley’s entrance on Charing Cross Road, he’s pleased to see the current photorealistic paintings hanging around the small gallery space by a Muggle artist Pansy came across at a DIY exhibition. It was weird at first, Pansy dragging him into the Muggle world that first year after the war to look at Muggle artwork, but she was becoming increasingly invested in gallery-hopping and visiting underground studio spaces. She was so enthralled by it, and it made her so happy, that Draco invested some of his own inheritance to help her open her own space, her parents initially unsupportive of the venture. Now, with the turn of Pureblood opinion about such things, her parents laud her for it, much to Pansy’s irritation. She refuses money from them for the upkeep.

Pansy steps out of the back room as soon as the doorbell jingles, a large black portfolio in hand and an older man following her.

“These are absolutely gorgeous _,_ Rodrigo. If you don’t mind, I’d like to hold onto them a bit longer. It’s better for me to work out how we can maximise the space with your prints directly in front of me than with a digital rendition.”

“No problem,” Rodrigo says, a smile on his handsome face, his hand resting on the small of Pansy’s back. He leans in to kiss Pansy but misses as she pulls away to give Draco a feral grin.

“Draco!” she starts pleasantly. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”

“Thought you’d fancy having lunch on me?” Draco says, lifting a small brown bag of two deliciously made salt beef sandwiches and crisps he picked up from their favourite place, Gaby’s Deli.

“I hope it’s what I think it is.”

“It is,” Draco says with a nod.

“Rodrigo, meet Draco Malfoy, my partner in crime,” Pansy says with a wink. “Draco, Rodrigo is my absolute favourite artist.”

Rodrigo steps forward to shake his hand, his grip firm and confident.

Rodrigo chuckles. “I’m sure she says that about all her…clients,” he says, his dark eyes dancing.

Draco finds him quite dashing, with his messy jet-black hair, hazel eyes, and trimmed beard. There’s no doubt in his mind that Pansy is shagging him.

Pansy flicks a few strands of her perfect black bob off her face. “Rodrigo’s exhibiting his recent body of screen prints and silk-cut lino graphs in two weeks.” Pansy then turns to Rodrigo. “Well, darling. I’ll ring you,” she says, leaning forward to place a kiss on each cheek.

“It was nice to meet you,” Draco says, his eyes flickering with amusement. “I look forward to seeing your work.”

When the door shuts behind the handsome man after their goodbyes, Pansy turns to Draco. They both stare at each other.

“What?” Pansy finally snaps.

“You’re shagging your ‘absolute favourite artist’, am I right?” he asks, mouth twitching.

“I may have shagged him rotten last week,” she says, her nose turning up, an air of satisfaction about her. “How’s the first day going?”

Draco’s smile slips and his forehead furrows. “I’m surviving. At least I get an hour's lunch.”

Pansy hums. “Let’s not waste it then,” she says, carefully setting down the enormous black portfolio on a large work table.

She quickly peers around Draco to glance at the front door. She lifts the hem of her short dress and pulls free her wand from her nifty, lacy holster around her thigh to cast a _Colloportus_ at the door as they both convene at the table.

Draco can see the bright, vivid abstract prints as she carefully slides Rodrigo’s prints into the portfolio. He steps closer, a hand briefly reaching out to graze her knuckles. Pansy immediately slows down, a knowing smile crossing her face.

“Can I expect you to be a buyer?” she asks.

Draco steps back but peers over her shoulder once more as he places their food on the corner of the table. “I like what I see so far, so you may be able to talk me into it.”

“He’s brilliant, Draco,” Pansy says reverently, her hands lightly grazing the edges of the last print before closing the portfolio. “But enough about Rodrigo, tell me what the highlight of your morning was,” Pansy says, reaching for their bag of lunch to pull out a sandwich and crisps.

“I was mostly tasked with filling out paperwork. I have a heap of research to do when I get back to the office. I sat in while the Wizengamot sent a few people away to Azkaban, which was a surreal experience.”

“Merlin, I bet. So, nothing too exciting?” she says wryly.

Draco perches himself on one of Pansy’s tall wooden stools. “Potter smiled at me this morning.”

“Ah, and now you’re wondering what his cock looks like?” she says, sitting on the stool beside him.

Draco smirks. “Maybe.”

She rolls her eyes. “You’re so predictable. The ex-Death Eater turned junior Wizengamot prosecutor and the dashing Saviour and future Head Auror, coming together to save the world once again and engage in hot, angry hate sex.”

Draco plucks away the sandwich she has and takes a huge bite out of it. Pansy tosses a rosemary-crusted crisp at his head.

“What an awful sounding romance novel,” Draco says around the sandwich.

Pansy grumbles as she rummages through the bag for the other sandwich. “You’ve always been incapable of leaving Potter alone. Now you both practically work together.”

“We do not,” Draco protests. “We’ll probably never cross paths again.” Draco sighs.

“Don’t be so dramatic. You’ll see your crush again,” Pansy teases.

“I do _not_ have a crush on him.”

Pansy suddenly looks thoughtful. “Why does all of this sound so familiar _?_ Oh, right! You’ve been saying the same thing for almost a decade.”

“Sod off,” Draco says between a bite. “He’s fit, I’ll give him that, but he’s still an arrogant arse.”

Pansy snorts. “I’ll take Potter’s arrogance over Blaise’s any day.”

Draco lowers his sandwich and catches Pansy’s eye, offering a small commiserating smile. “It’ll get better.”

Pansy tenses. “Fuck Blaise and his nouveau-riche teen-bride, Draco. He’s been a bigger arse than usual and he’s becoming just as creepy as Bitty!” she says on an impassioned puff of air. It’s as if she’s been holding in that insult for ages.

“Nouveau-riche, Pansy?” He raises an eyebrow.

“What?” she snaps, biting into her sandwich. “Her family only amassed their fortune within the last hundred years or so,” she says around the sandwich, not even bothering to chew and swallow first.

Draco really loves that around him, she doesn’t have to pretend to be made of ice.

“While you do have a flair for hyperbole, doesn’t that quantify as long enough?”

“You and that social-climbing creeper can fuck right off,” Pansy grunts half-heartedly.

Draco’s mouth hangs open. “Hey, that’s my step-sister-in-law you’re talking about!” He bites back a laugh.

Pansy scowls. “New rule—never refer to her as your sister-in-law in front of me ever, _ever_ again. Thief, whore, or creep are the only acceptable terms.”

\----

Later that evening, Draco is still in his office doing further research on an upcoming case for the Chief Prosecutor. All in all, it’s been an arguably decent first day of work. He had prepared notations on evidence on an on-going case for the Auror Department earlier. Much to Draco’s shock, the Chief Prosecutor had been impressed with his insights upon first glance and gave him the approval needed to send his work to Level Two. Draco had returned to his office and subsequent research with a joyful bounce in his step.

He’s surprised to receive a knock on his door. Apart from the Chief checking in and okaying Draco’s involvement in cases, no one has been particularly welcoming, quite the opposite, which is fine by him. He doesn’t need to make any new friends. His assistant hasn’t even stopped back in, opting to just send him memos or speak to him via the magical intercom.

“Come in,” he calls, not looking up as he tries to mark his place in his text.

“So, this is your office, eh?”

Draco whips his head up so fast that a small crick shoots up behind his left ear. Potter is now sweeping into the office.

“What are you doing here?”

“Well, I…just wanted to properly welcome you to the Ministry,” Potter says absently, looking around the office with such a critical eye, it’s as if he’s studying priceless art.

The space is adequate, Draco quickly reassures himself under Potter’s gaze. It’s a nice size for a Junior Prosecutor with Draco’s reputation. There’s two soft leather armchairs placed before his large, black mahogany desk and even a small loveseat crammed between two metal file cabinets against the wall to the left of his desk. He has a large window situated behind him, though the window is charmed to show a grey sky threatening rain.

“Do you personally welcome every new Ministry recruit?”

“Only the ones I like.”

Draco stiffens.

“To annoy,” Potter finishes with a mean little smile. He flops himself down in the chair before Draco’s desk, knees spread and arms coming up to fold against his broad chest, the metal buckles of his wand and knife holder glinting in the light. “Not a bad office. I thought for sure they’d stick you in a closet. I would’ve.”

“Ha-Ha, Let’s Haze the Ex-Death Eater! Is that what this is? Why don’t you lot just leave me alone?” Draco asks angrily.

No matter how well he wants this job to go, he refuses to be bullied by Harry fucking Potter. Yes, it would be the karma Draco deserves, but he’s determined to prove that he’s not the same selfish, snivelling Pureblood prick he was at Hogwarts. And there’s only so much he can take _._

Potter’s good-natured demeanour vanishes, his brows furrowing. “Someone’s been hazing you?”

Draco shrugs. “It’s silly, but just enough of an inconvenience to make my first day more difficult than it already is.”

“What happened?”

Draco fidgets in his seat, feeling a bit overwhelmed by Potter’s concern. He doesn’t know why the other man gives a toss about what’s happening to him.

“Ah, just some tripping and jelly-leg jinxes when I leave the office for tea, the usual spitting and hissing when I walk by, and oh, someone left this pinned to my door when I came back from lunch with Pansy.” Draco opens the left drawer of his desk, pulls out and tosses the thing on top of his books.

Potter jerks back in his seat. “What the hell is that?”

“I believe it’s a stuffed toy ferret. With its head sheared off.”

Potter’s eyes widen. “Fucking hell!”

“That’s what I said,” Draco says, picking up the offensive thing to shove back into his drawer. “Also, where’s the bloody head?” Draco muses, the corners of his mouth twitching. “Maybe it’ll show up by Friday, it’s only Monday after all.”

“Malfoy, this is harassment. You need to tell your boss what’s happening within his own department.”

“Are you kidding, Potter?” Draco barks out a laugh. “The Chief Prosecutor probably put the damn thing there himself.”

“You’re not serious? He hired you.”

“He _had_ to hire me as proof that the Ministry is moving on from the war.”

Potter is silent for a moment. “Did he tell you that?”

“He doesn’t have to. I know how these things go,” Draco says, running a hand through his hair. “Is there anything else you need, Potter? I’d like to get back to work.”

“No. I mean, I just…wanted to say thanks…er…I saw your notes on the evidence for our case. They were a brilliant fresh take, really. It’s going to help us a lot.”

“Oh,” Draco says, surprised by the compliment. He clears his throat. “You’re welcome.”

“And. I want to tell you that I’m not interested in causing you any grief here, Malfoy. We…we’re probably going to cross paths a lot as the Auror Team Leaders work with the Chief Prosecutor’s team throughout our prominent cases. And perhaps for the betterment of our future time together, maybe you’d be interested in a, you know, truce?” Potter babbles, suddenly standing and offering his hand.

Draco doesn’t move, instead fixing his gaze on Potter’s outstretched hand. A diplomatic Potter. How unsettling, as this has been a moment Draco’s only thought about in passing. Oh, who is he kidding? He’s _dreamt_ about this moment—where they both put aside their differences and shake hands on it. Maybe, dare he even hope, become _friendly_.

So much for not needing to make new friends at the Ministry.

“Truce,” Draco finally says, standing to lean over the desk to grip Potter’s hand.

He pumps it with enthusiasm. When he tries to take his hand back, Potter doesn’t ease his grip right away and Draco’s breath catches in his throat.

“I’m really looking forward to seeing you around.”

“So you’ve said,” Draco responds slowly, a small smile on his lips.

Internally, he’s screaming. He doesn’t quite know what to think of the warm, calloused hand still tight around his own. It feels too familiar and yet so far removed from what Draco can mentally grasp in this very moment because...Merlin...it’s _Potter_...

“Just making sure you heard me,” Potter says, finally letting go.

Draco’s hand tingles. “Loud and clear. Now, time for you to leave, Potter. Unlike you, some people around here actually have to work,” he says, taking his seat.

Potter chuckles, shooting Draco another warm smile. “Have a good night,” he says before ducking out of the office.


	3. Chapter 3

_Bad things happen to the people you love_

_And you'll find yourself praying up to heaven above_

_But honestly I never had much sympathy_

_Cause those bad things, I always saw them coming for me._

**Bad Things/Cults**

Draco opened his invitation to the Davis Family’s second charity gala quite late. He had been avoiding his owl post for over two weeks, annoyed with the influx of ridiculous events Pureblood families were hosting— from fancy dress masquerades for eligible parties to book club meetups for singles. Draco doesn’t need the constant reminder that he’s alone and will probably die that way.

**Mrs Tracey Alexandria Sapphire Flint (née Davis).**

Draco considers Tracey a friend, even though she wasn’t in his immediate circle of cronies at Hogwarts. She was always on the outskirts, and he’s ashamed to admit that it’s because, though a Slytherin, she was quite vocal about her anti-Voldemort sentiment in school. He had even seen her talking to Granger a few times in their shared classes. In order to save face in front of his friends, and later, Voldemort, Draco had to keep some distance from her. Despite his attempts to keep her at arm’s length, he had a brief, passionate fling with her back in fifth year. At one point he truly believed himself to be in love with her. But like every woman Draco has fooled around with, they eventually ended up leaving him to date Blaise.

Out of all the events during the Season, Draco finds the Davis Charity Opera event the best. Her Father, a prominent barrister then (Wizengamot member now), had married a Muggleborn witch at the beginning of Voldemort’s power in the 70s. Tracey’s mother, Tiana, was a Muggleborn witch who came from wealth and worked strictly in the Muggle world as the Director of Grange Park Opera.

Davis Manor is situated on a private, spiraling estate in Weybridge, Surrey. The Flint-Davis wedding was held there a little over a year ago and Draco, like many other guests that day, was not only visiting the property for the first time, but was shocked to see what a Muggle-Wizard mixed household looks like. There were radios and TVs, computers and telephones alongside cauldrons, moving portraits, and a fat old Kneazle he caught a glimpse of in one of the loos on the ground floor. The modernised Muggle home is _still_ talked about in the Pureblood circle. It was scandalous and exciting. Exotic and controversial. It put the Davis family on the map for the preying upper echelons of society.

For the Davis family's first Society event, the most startling portion of their invite had read:

_**Muggle Cocktail Attire Only.** _

**_Strictly NO magic of any kind allowed on our premises._ **

Imagine the rumours and speculation that had spread like fiendfyre throughout the community! Intrigued, Draco had donned his Armani suit and tucked away his wand in a hidden sleeve holster.

The gathering was one of a kind: an opera gala as well as fundraiser, the proceeds going to homeless Muggle youth. There had been a fabulous dinner, followed by a performance of _The Mikado,_ performed by an _all Muggle cast_ in a private theatre built on the fourth level of the Davis home. To the Muggles, the reality of an entire opera theatre being in one’s home was extremely absurd, and Draco had noticed the shock and awe on their faces during the reception. But to Draco and the other guests, it was simply magic.

The Pureblood community had suddenly wanted to be friends with the Davis Family, invite them to the best parties, and encourage the family to turn their bizarre opera gala into an annual event. Now that Muggles, Muggleborns, half-bloods, and even Squibs are _en vogue,_ Tracey’s family’s popularity has risen, the wealth and subtle power being major influences. The Pureblood community embraced them for the diversity points they so sorely desired. They’re projected to raise hundreds of thousands of galleons this year for the Arts in the Wizarding World.

Despite their status within the community and Ministry now, a couple of years ago they were unable to get an invite to a proper party, or match Tracey with a family like, perhaps, Draco’s, Pansy’s cousins, or even Theo due to her blood status.

And so she was set to marry ugly, philandering _Marcus Flint_ of all people, a Pureblood of no political pull and no wealth. Aligning his family with Tracey’s had been symbiotic: the Davis’s had received the social status they craved; the Flints’ had received a dowry to keep their family afloat for several generations to come.

Now finally free from consuming the proverbial Pureblood punch, Draco questions the absurdity of Tracey’s predicament. He had realised that there were a number of insidious reasons why Tracey and her family had been disrespected so thoroughly by the Pureblood community in comparison to, say, the Bulstrodes. It made his blood boil, to think about it now. If he had to be forced into a marriage that soon after Hogwarts, he would have gladly accepted Tracey’s proposal. She’s smart, wickedly funny, and not to mention, drop dead gorgeous. Her honey brown eyes were almost as sharp as her fiery wit.

But his name was never brought up as a possible suitor. The Malfoy’s were still too tricky of a family to associate with, and his mother would have called it a mercy marriage, much like the arrangement Tracey has with Marcus, if he had been asked to consider Tracey for a spouse. But in reality he _knows_ Tracey, and she deserves better than him, better than Marcus, or some mercy marriage, or anything that’s not true love. After Hogwarts, she had enrolled in the Auror Corp, but was forced to leave when she became engaged to Marcus. He refused to have a wife in a position of such power when he himself had no job, no power of his own making, and no fortune of his own.

And so poor Tracey is stuck with an arsehole for a husband.

\---

“I see we’re both wearing Gucci tonight,” Pansy says as Draco helps her out of the black limousine.

He had arrived on his own but waited kerbside for Pansy, his mother, and Dany to arrive. The lustrous curved driveway of the Davis estate boasts a velvet red carpet entryway for the guests to arrive on, and Pansy steps onto the carpet looking like a runway model with her black fur coat. She slips it off and hands it to a valet as society page paparazzi clad in Muggle clothing snap photos of her now exposed pale bare arms and shoulders. Her exquisite, avant garde strappy black dress nearly touches the ground, her red-bottom black stilettos peeping out from underneath the jagged hem.

“Oh, there’s nothing that rivals a proper English garden,” Narcissa says as Draco helps her out of the limo next.

She pauses to take in the trimmed hedges in the early evening light, a small appreciative smile gracing her face. Dany shoos away Draco’s hand with a chuckle as she steps out of the limo, her hand immediately reaching for Narcissa’s proffered one.

“It is rather lovely, darling,” Dany says, pulling Narcissa in close to press a kiss to her cheek. Her black Chanel couture pantsuit, outfitted with a white collared shirt, black bowtie and long, thick string of pearls is simply stunning, and the perfect companion to his mother’s Chanel skirt suit.

“Narcissa! Narcissa! This way, Ms Black! Tell us, is it true you’re spearheading a new plan to open Diagon Alley’s first ever shopping centre?”

“No comment,” Narcissa says, waving off the paparazzi.

Draco glances over in surprise. He was unaware that his mother’s plans had been made public. When Draco’s mother asked him two months ago if he thought Muggle malls were chic, he thought she had gone a bit barmy. He, of course, explained to her that they _could_ be, if the stores were luxury shops. And so came forth Narcissa’s contribution to the changing community of the Wizarding World. Intrigued and excited for her, Draco even offered to invest in the venture.

“C’mon, give us _something!_ ”

They make it through the chaos that is the paparazzi and soon enter the ballroom to enjoy an aperitif while Tracey’s father and mother, Thaddeus and Tiana, introduce tonight’s performance of Bellini’s _I Capuleti e i Montecchi_. Draco happily nurses a glass of champagne, revising his work week’s to-do list in his head near the stage, when he’s startled out of his thoughts.

“Don’t you just love a good tragedy?”

Draco grins as he pulls Tracey into a hug.

“Tracey! Merlin, it’s been ages. You look gorgeous, as always,” Draco starts, realising that gone are her long, thin braids. Her hair is now straight, parted down the middle, and brushes her shoulders. He used to _love_ her braids. He wonders why she got rid of them.

“You charmer,” Tracey starts, a hesitant hand nervously reaching up to touch the ends of her hair. “Did I see your mother and Dany come in? Is Blaise with you?” she asks casually.

Draco smirks. He knows Tracey still carries a torch for Blaise, even after he left her for Pansy. “He didn’t arrive with us. I actually arrived by myself to be honest, but I’m sure he’s around here somewhere.”

“Gosh,” Tracey says, looking around nervously. “I heard he got engaged.”

“Yes.”

“That’s lovely,” she says, her gaze averting to the ground before glancing back up at Draco. “You look dashing. I’m _so_ glad you were able to make it. I know things have been a bit rough for you.”

Draco sighs. He doesn’t think he’ll ever escape this community’s scrutiny of him, let alone the torrent gossip. “I’m surviving. How are you, though? How’s the family?”

Tracey’s red-painted lips break into a smile but Draco notices the spark of anxiety in her eyes. She suddenly goes rigid, her gaze fixing over Draco’s left shoulder. He’s about to turn around when a large hand claps him on the shoulder. Draco starts as Marcus Flint encroaches his personal space, stinking of liquor.

“Draco bloody Malfoy, how the hell are you, old bean?” He holds out his hand and Draco briefly shakes it, annoyed at even having to stand near the man.

“Flint...I was trying to catch up with Tracey here.”

Flint rolls his eyes. “She’s quite the chatterbox, isn’t she? Sorry if she’s boring you to tears.”

“I wasn’t,” Tracey says quietly, as Draco responds, “She’s not, but you terribly are.”

Her gaze once more averts to the ground as Flint throws an arm around her shoulders, chuckling.

“You’re trying to bust my bollocks!” Flint says, swaying on his feet. “Did you hear that I’m joining the Ministry? Magical Games and Sports,” Flint says proudly, his chest puffing up as he plucks a glass of champagne from the tray of a passing waiter. He guzzles half of it down before shooting Draco a shark-like smile. “I say, Malfoy, if you’re interested, I know of an excellent wager pool that’s opening up for the upcoming Quidditch match between Pudd United and the Tarapoto Tree-Skimmers.”

“ _Darling_ , I don’t think it’s wise to discuss this,” Tracey says quickly.

“Nonsense! Malfoy’s a good sort, aren’t you, darling? You’re not so green, are you?”

Draco tries to hide his surprise, but fails. Everyone knows that Ministry employees, especially those in Games and Sports, were now forbidden to participate in betting pools postwar. “Already looking to break the rules in your new position, Flint? Are you revving up to be the next Ludo Bagman?”

“Oh, good one!” Flint chuckles loudly. “I’m just having a spot of fun. And what are friends for? I’m letting you in on something that could be potentially record-breaking in terms of the winnings!”

“There’s no reason to shout, Flint, I’m sure the Society ladies will hear about your illegal business dealings without having heard the information directly from your mouth. And thanks, but I’m not interested.”

“You’re a scary bore, then.”

“Ah, if you equate not breaking the law with cowardice, sure.”

Flint purses his lips at that, his eager bright eyes now dulling. “If you’ll excuse us, we do have to make the appropriate rounds. As always, it’s been a pleasure.” Flint nods, his arm tightening around Tracey who winces through a smile.

“Enjoy the performance tonight, Draco,” she says graciously.

\---

It was during the intermission that Draco discovers that Potter is in attendance at the gala.

He catches a glimpse of the man as people pile out for the loos and drinks. Potter has on his arm Luna Lovegood, who is inappropriately dressed in a ridiculous leopard print maxi dress. Potter, on the other hand, is dressed in a traditional tux.

Draco considers approaching them, but decides against it. There’s no need to have his night spoiled this early in the event by verbally sparring with Potter, Lovegood’s dress providing Draco wonderful working material to get the other man's blood boiling. Instead, he makes his way to the ground floor where the quieter loos and kitchens are. This far down, the corridors are a bit darker, colder. It’s eerie, but in the distance he can hear the clinking of glasses, plates, and cutlery as the waiters prepare food.

He has no idea he’s being followed until he reaches the door to the loo at the end of the corridor, and finds that Tracey is behind him.

“Draco,” she rushes out, stepping into the light. “I need you to take this.”

“What the hell is going on?” he asks, his eyes widening as tears begin to form in Tracey’s eyes. He places a hand on her shoulder, the silk fabric of her dress cool under his touch. She flinches and shakes him off. “Merlin. Are you alright?” Confused and more than a little alarmed, Draco notices the scroll of parchment she’s currently pushing into his hands.

“No, I’m not. And there’s no one I can really trust to help me.”

“ _What?_ ” Draco blinks. “What is this?”

He finally takes the scroll and looks down at it. It’s heavy in his hands.

Tracey grasps Draco’s elbow, leading him towards the empty, poorly lit space beneath the staircase. She shoves him under it and tucks herself in against him. “Listen to me very carefully,” she starts in a hushed whisper. “I need you to give that scroll to Harry Potter.”

“Tracey. What, no...he’s right upstairs—”

“— _No!_ Draco, no...I can’t be seen talking to him. I know you work for the Chief Prosecutor.”

“I’m just a junior—”

“It doesn’t matter.” She tightens her grip on him, her eyes pleading. “I’m sorry to involve you like this, with little choice on the matter, but please, Draco. You’re one of the good ones, I can tell _._ Harry, he’s not what everyone in the Ministry thinks he is. We worked together as Auror trainees and I...he’s...he’s not what he seems, and I can’t...I can’t get to him with everyone’s eyes on me. I’m sure you’ve picked up on how Marcus...treats me. He’s always watching.” Tracey sighs heavily, angrily wiping away the tears on her cheeks with her free hand. “If he’s not berating me or trying to change the way I look,” she touches her hair, “he finds more creative ways to hurt me.”

Draco draws in a sharp breath. He steps a bit closer to her. “Tracey. Is he _hitting_ you?”

“I need you to give that to Harry Potter,” she repeats more firmly, but Draco can hear the slight tremor in her voice.

“ _Tracey_. If Flint is abusing you, you need to tell me right now so I can—”

“So you can _what?_ Stop him? Arrest him? Throw him away in Azkaban? What _good_ will any of that do for me or my family? I told his god awful mother what he was doing and she asked me _what I was doing wrong!_ I tried to go to the Aurors, but they told me I need solid proof. As if my black eyes weren’t enough! I can’t tell my parents. Everything they’ve ever dreamed of is currently coming true and I can’t take that away from them. But what I can do is hold on and continue to do what I can on the inside. Please, Draco. There are very few people someone like me can trust within the Ministry. But I trust _you_. My gut was right about you because that scroll would’ve burned a hole in your hand if I couldn’t. I have to do this... _I have to._ Please. Find a way to give this to Harry. And never, ever mention this conversation, any part of it, to me again.”

She leans forward to quickly press a kiss onto Draco’s cheek before turning away to all but run up the staircase. Draco stands there, shrouded in the dark, heart racing painfully in his chest.

His hands tighten around the thick, heavy scroll.

\-----

Whatever it is, he wants no part of it.

Or at least that is what he tells himself for the six hundredth time since the gala. He hasn’t opened it, at least. The weekend has flown by, and Draco keeps turning over in his head the bizarre conversation he had with Tracey. He’s deposited the scroll on his home office desk, warily staring at it perched on top of old copies of the _Daily Prophet_ as he flips through documents he brought home from work.

He hasn’t figured out yet how he’s going to give this to Potter. Or if he should. Whatever Tracey is embroiled in seems potentially dangerous if Potter is at all involved, and Draco has never been of the courageous or adventurous sort. Simply put, Tracey was wrong to trust him with this.

Still, now that he has it, the responsibility of said scroll rests heavily on his conscience, even when Monday rolls around. He’s surprised to find himself packing away the damned thing in his briefcase, his subconscious obviously clearing up his indecisiveness.

He’s now sat at a five-star French restaurant with Bitty, his briefcase at his feet, waiting for an obnoxiously late Blaise to show up.

Draco checks his Rolex with a scowl. “I only have an hour for lunch. He bloody knows that.”

Bitty is sipping from an icy glass of lemon water, a bored expression on her face. “He’s a very busy man, our Blaise.”

“You mean _your_ Blaise,” Draco scoffs, picking up the menu before him.

“He could be _ours_.”

Draco groans. “Not today, Bitty. Not right _now._ I’m not in the mood for your silliness. For fucks sake, we’re among unfamiliar company,” Draco murmurs, glancing around at the posh, genteel Muggles.

“It was your decision to come here. I would have gladly gone somewhere for _our people_ , but here I am, my lunch ruined because I’m surrounded by filth.”

“Just be quiet,” Draco demands, a fissure of annoyance racing through him at Bitty’s casual racism. “Everything that comes out of your mouth as of late is hateful.”

A moment of silence goes by. “What? You’re not even going to deny it?”

Bitty takes another sip, her nose turning up. “You told me to be quiet,” she drawls.

Draco sets down his menu. “I don’t know why I agreed to meet you. I have better ways to waste my time,” he says, making to stand.

Bitty clears her throat. “I have a problem with your mother,” she says suddenly.

Draco bares his teeth. “Then take it up with her. How is it my problem?”

“She’s your mother. Soon to be my mother-in-law and it’s not a secret that she’s...unfond of me. I was hoping you’d be a bridge of sorts, facilitating a peaceful dialogue.”

“Use Blaise,” Draco says, pushing his chair back.

Bitty darts a hand out to grip his wrist.

“I have every intention of using Blaise on this matter, Draco. I know how much you love him.” Bitty slides Draco a piece of paper across the table with her other hand.

He angrily picks it up.

Immediately, he can feel his cheeks heat up. “Are you _completely_ daft?” he hisses, slamming the paper face down on the table. When he looks up, Bitty’s gaze is ravenous as she closely watches him, as if taking some sick pleasure in his reaction. “Are you so completely devoid of common sense that you’d slip me a _naked photograph_ of your fiance, in public, to somehow entice me to stay?”

“It’s working, is it not?” Bitty says, her tone as languid as a lazy stretch and her eyes bright with mirth. Her thumb begins to trace lazy circles against the bone of his wrist.

“You’re mental,” Draco says in disbelief, yanking his wrist free. “I’m leaving.”

“Surely you can wait until I’ve had at least one drink?” Blaise says, now standing beside the table. He snaps his fingers, catching the attention of a passing waiter. “Maker’s Mark, neat. Immediately.”

Draco looks up, and Merlin, his cheeks are on fire as Blaise presses a kiss to Bitty’s forehead before taking the seat beside him. Embarrassed and at loss for what else to do, Draco stealthily slips the naked photo of his best friend into the inside pocket of his suit jacket. He’ll...get rid of it later...

“Sorry I’m late, ugly business at the WWN Headquarters this morning. Merlin, Draco. You’re sweating like a troll. What’s wrong with you?”

“It is overly warm in this place,” Bitty says, fanning herself with her hand. “Draco’s always been rather sensitive to a little bit of _heat_ , haven’t you darling?”

Blaise snorts. “Could hardly drag the bastard out for a stroll when we were in Italy, remember? I swear, Draco, sometimes I think you’re a vampire. You only seem to enjoy cold, dark places.”

Draco is practically _seething_ as Bitty shoots him a coy smile. He draws in a breath to compose himself. “What happened at the WWN?” Draco asks, desperate to change the conversation.

“Seems like there was some sort of mix up about the property your Mother is trying to purchase. She wants to present her bid under her own LLC, but somehow the lawyers mangled the deal up and told the property owners it’s under my mother’s LLC. It’s fine, we’ve worked it out, which reminds me, we have a few openings on our legal team since we cleaned house this morning. Any chance you’d be interested?”

Draco smirks. “Not a chance in hell.”

Blaise shrugs, a smile crossing his face as the waiter hands him his Maker’s Mark.

“That brings me back to why I called this meeting,” Bitty speaks up. “It’s not fair that your mother is attempting to purchase this property, Draco. Everyone knows that my family submitted a bid ages ago and she’s using her relationship with Dany to sway the board. My family will directly challenge your mother for that property.”

Draco shoots her the iciest glare he can muster. “How _dare_ you—”

“Now, now, Draco,” Blaise starts. “Don’t be cross with Bitty, she’s just looking after her family.”

“At the cost of _ours?_ ” Draco asks with a note of indignation.

Blaise’s gaze suddenly flares with...heat. It’s a look Draco has never had directed at him before from Blaise, and it does something funny to Draco. A low, pulsating ball of desire begins to unfurl in the pit of his stomach. Blaise places a hand on top of Draco’s, only adding to the feeling.

“ _Our_ family. I like the sound of that,” Blaise says warmly.

Draco looks away from him, the growing sensation in him becoming too much. “Well. If you like the sound of it so much maybe you can offer some assistance on this matter.”

Blaise withdraws his hand. “Perhaps Narcissa will be open to sharing the space with the Agnelli’s.” Blaise then turns his attention to Bitty. “Your dad was just going to open up a cauldron shop, was he not?”

Bitty grimaces. “It’s not _just_ a cauldron shop, darling. We were going to branch into the sale of potion ingredients. It was going to be the largest store of its kind, ever! Daddy is _so_ angry that Narcissa is doing this to us!”

Draco is about to open his mouth to cut Bitty down with a scolding remark or two when Blaise’s hand once again finds its way on top of Draco’s.

“Now, now, Bitty my love. Show some respect for my family. Soon to be _your_ family. If your father can’t come to an agreement with Narcissa, I’m afraid he’ll just have to take his chances with the board in charge of the property’s sale.”

“Even a whiff of scandal will give them reason to dismiss an offer,” Draco says pointedly, inconspicuously tapping the pocket that holds the picture of Blaise. Bitty rolls her eyes.

“Well, that’s settled then,” Blaise says with a note of finality. Nothing has been resolved, but Draco’s eager to escape the restaurant with some semblance of control over the situation. “Is there anything good here?” Blaise releases Draco once more to pick up Draco’s discarded menu.

Bitty, obviously put out at having lost this battle, pouts and picks up her own menu.

“I’m sure there’s something yummy here! I do so love trying out new, Muggle places,” Bitty says softly, earning an approving nod from Blaise.

“Excellent. I’m thinking of comfort food...how about a coq au vin?” Blaise suggests.

Draco swallows. He’s suddenly not thinking about food or Bitty’s two-facedness. Instead, he’s thinking about the image of Blaise in his pocket: naked, his muscular body sprawled out against royal purple sheets as he languidly pumps away at his cock.

“Yes,” Draco says, clearing his dry throat. “That sounds really good.”

“Just delicious, darling,” Bitty comments, her gaze once again trained on Draco, both predatory and bright with laughter all at once.

\------

Draco makes his decision after a quick, furious wank in the loo after his lunch with Blaise and Bitty. The whole time he was pulling off he kept calling himself _despicable_ : here he is, in the loo down the hall from his office, barely able to conceal the moans escaping his dry lips. Thank Merlin for a Silencing Charm. Ashamed of himself, Draco is unable to destroy the picture afterwards and instead slips it into his wallet.

He’s also unable to chuck that scroll into a bin. His wank had eased some of his anxiety, and allowed him to think a bit more clearly. Tracey is obviously in trouble, and if she risked her safety to put whatever information the scroll contains in Potter’s hand, who is he to disabuse her of her choices? He was ready to head to Potter’s office to turn it over.

It’s not lost on him that his dropping in might be strange. He hasn’t spoken to Potter in a while. Not since he showed up that Friday evening the week of their truce to enquire about the missing head of the stuffed toy ferret, which indeed made an eventful reappearance— someone childishly stuck it onto Draco’s back. He walked around with it for Merlin knows how long. By the time Barbara pointed it out it was already time to go home. That was three weeks ago now.

When he’s finally in front of Potter’s office, the door automatically swings open.

“You better watch your back, Potter.”

Potter is perched on the edge of a desk, an apple in hand, and at the door is the imposing Ahmed Shafiq, the rising star on the Wizengamot. And apparently not a Harry Potter fan. He’s tall, taller than Draco, with broad shoulders and a clean-shaven face that boasts a perpetual scowl. He looks more threatening than usual as he looms over Draco.

“It’s just my luck that I not only see one but two miserable bastards today,” Shafiq spits as he glares down at Draco. “Get out of my bloody way, Malfoy.”

He shoulders pass Draco, knocking him against the doorframe. Shocked, Draco is unable to unstick his lips to say anything scathing to the older man. Draco instead watches Ahmed make his way down the corridor, his black Ministry robe billowing behind him menacingly. He glances back at Potter.

“Malfoy! Hey, sorry about that,” Potter starts cheerfully before biting into his apple. “Why don’t you come on in?” he says around his mouthful.

Draco hesitantly steps into the office, his palms suddenly sweaty. “What was that all about?” he asks as he shuts the door behind him.

A quick assessment of the office shows that Potter’s alone, and that his side of the environment is as messy as his person. There are piles and piles of manilla folders stacked beside Potter’s desk, empty tea cups balanced precariously on top of them. Beside his desk, which he’s still perched on, is a beat up loveseat, the middle part broken and sagging to the floor. Potter’s own Auror uniform is rumpled, his hair is wild, and his glasses are slightly askew as he takes another bite from his apple.

“Oh, don’t worry about that. Politicians are a colicky breed of monster. Anyway. How can I help you today?”

There’s an uneasy feeling Draco can’t shake about this whole ordeal, but he clears his throat and reaches into his inner suit pocket to pull out the scroll.

“I have something for you. Catch.” Draco tosses it, and despite the apple being in his dominant hand, Potter easily snatches the scroll from out of the air with the other.

The shocked look on his face startles Draco. Some part of him believed Potter was expecting the scroll. Maybe he simply wasn’t expecting _Draco_ to deliver it. Potter slowly sets down his apple to carefully examine the scroll, his eyes flashing as he realises that the teal-coloured seal is unbroken. He runs his thumb over it.

“Well, this is quite the surprise,” Potter says quietly. “Teal for Tracey.”

Draco steps towards Potter in a way that he hopes matches the anger that’s suddenly swelling inside him. “She was absolutely fucking terrified, Potter. I don’t know what you have her mixed up in, but she deserves better.”

Potter shows no sign of acknowledging what Draco’s said, or having even heard him. “You really didn’t open the scroll?” Potter asks, now reaching up to the gilded handle poking out from his holster. He pulls free his knife to carefully slide under the seal, breaking it. He replaces his knife and then pulls free his wand to trace over the scroll, muttering incoherently under his breath. “You didn’t open it.”

“No, I didn’t, you idiot. Tracey is a friend. And I’m telling you, I want no part in whatever shit you’re involved in. I like my job, I like my freedom, and some days life doesn’t feel like complete fucking rubbish. I couldn't give a rat’s arse about the Flint family, but Tracey? I don’t care if she is married to Marcus. She’s a good person and I hope you know that and decide to help her instead of getting her hurt.”

Potter opens the scroll, his eyes quickly scanning whatever is on it. He then abruptly closes it and finally looks up.

He’s staring at Draco as if he’s grown a second head.

“You are...nothing like I thought you’d be.”

“Well, bully for you, because you’re _exactly_ what I thought you’d be: a troublemaker with a hero-complex who’s determined to bring everyone around you down to your fucked-up level. Find someone else to do your dirty work.”

“What makes you think Tracey isn’t enjoying what she’s doing?”

“She gave that to _me_. I _saw_ her, you prick. She’s afraid. She can’t even get her messages to you because of her husband. Are you and your cronies doing anything about that, eh? Do you know he’s _beating_ her and God knows what else? That’s why I'm passing this scroll along, you twat. You’re a bloody Auror, _do something._ Do you know how fucking bizarre this whole ordeal is?”

“And yet you have no questions you want to ask me? You’re not going to go off and start stalking me, are you?” Potter asks calmly.

Draco goes rigid. “If memory serves me correctly, Potter, stalking and oh, attempted murder, is _your_ forte.”

At that, Potter’s expression becomes very grave. “Right. You have every right to be upset right now, Malfoy. I can’t begin to imagine how worried you must be for your friend.”

“I am.” Draco folds his arms against his chest. “And just so you know, I have my own problems to deal with. I’d rather not take on yours, or whatever _that_ is,” he nods towards the scroll. “But if I hear something happened to Tracey and you sat by, as an Auror no less, and did nothing to help her, you’ll wish you’d never been born.”

A small smile graces Potter’s face briefly. “You have my word that Tracey is being looked after and that no harm will come to her.”

Draco sighs in relief. “Good. And just so we’re clear, this will be the first and last time I play messenger.”

Potter shrugs. “If you say so.” He then slips the scroll into an inner pocket of his robe, picks up his apple to resume biting into. “Uh, sorry. If that’s all I’d like to return to my lunch,” Potter says with a full mouth, lifting his apple.

Embarrassed and more than a little confused at how this conversation has played out, Draco scowls at the other man. “You’re an arsehole, Potter.”

“I’m getting called that a lot today,” he says with a quizzical look that’s at odds with the small smirk gracing his lips. “Strange. I’ll see you around, Malfoy.”

“Don’t count on it, _arsehole_ ,” he says, pulling open the door. He makes sure to slam it as hard as possible on his way out.


	4. Chapter 4

_We haven’t spoke since you went away_

_Comfortable silence is so overrated_

_Why won’t you ever be the first one to break?_

_Even my phone misses your call, by the way._

**_From the Dining Table_ /Harry Styles**

It’s a lazy Saturday evening and Draco finds himself sitting in the brightly sconce-lit, airy drawing room of the Nott estate in Surrey. After spending the afternoon at the Selwyn’s drinks party, he’s happy to be surrounded by Theo, Blaise, Pansy and Millicent for a relaxing night-cap.

And, apparently, Muggle drugs.

“Mummy bought me the most _gorgeous_ silk frock from Prada for the Annual Shafiq Quidditch match. It’s practically _transparent_ ,” Pansy purrs as she lounges back on Theo’s late Regency rosewood chaise lounge, ankles crossed and head propped up against a heavily embroidered throw pillow. Her fingers play with the string of pearls wrapped several times around her long, thin neck. “It’s going to be the talk of the event, just you watch.”

“Oh, Merlin. I have no idea what the hell I’m going to wear,” Millie says, flipping through one of her many manuscripts, a self-inking quill hovering beside her along with her dry martini. Millie’s just been promoted to Assistant Editor at her publishing firm and therefore has a manuscript or two in her handbag at all times. “I still have a few weeks to sort it out.” She shrugs.

“You could always borrow something of mine, darling,” Pansy says distractedly.

Millie rolls her eyes. “We’ve been over this. I’m too fat to fit into your clothes, Pansy.”

“Millie!” Pansy gasps. “Don’t you _dare_ say that about yourself! You’re _gorgeous—!”_

Millie snorts. “I said I was _fat_ , not _ugly_.”

“You’re _not_ —”

“Pansy, I love you to death but please shut up,” Millie huffs, pulling a throw pillow free from behind her to toss in Pansy’s direction. Pansy harrumphs as it lands in her lap.

Draco rubs his chin. He’s in agreement with Millie on Pansy shutting up. He doesn’t entirely understand or care for Pansy’s bizarre comments right now, but she and Millie have always been the best of frenemies. Millie’s a fiercely intelligent force to be reckoned with and was always popular in the Slytherin common room, despite her blood status and Pansy’s attempts back then at sabotage. With her full figure, clear heart-shaped face, and long jet-black curls, she’d always been the target for Pansy’s cruelty and petty jealousies as kids. He thought she’d grown out of that kind of behaviour.

He’s suddenly reminded of the summer before Fifth Year with Millie, when they were 14 and Lucius, having started early on the scotch, inappropriately called her _Rubenesque._ The subsequent leer he fixed her with making her feel uncomfortable, sad, and scared. Draco hadn’t fully grasped the complexity of the situation or Millie’s response to it. He had felt confused, uncomfortable in the sense that he lacked understanding, and angry at himself for not being able to help Millie feel better in that moment. Millie stayed at Draco’s side every second of the day that entire summer she spent at Malfoy Manor, even going as far as to creep into Draco’s bed at night. They would stay up together into the wee hours, sharing hopes and fears and secrets. Draco learned how to plait her hair.

At that time, Draco hadn’t yet reconciled that the same man he loved as his _Father_ was also an actual monster, _Lucius_.

“Alright now!” Theo says, leaning forward, his arms branching out to protect the small thin lines decorated across his glass coffee table. “You lot are going to ruin a good thing before it even gets started.”

“Oh, bugger off, Theo,” Blaise mutters, taking a swig from his tumbler. “No one is interested in your filthy Muggle drugs.”

Millie fixes Blaise with a glare.

“What?” Blaise says with a shrug, noticing her. “Come off it, Millie darling. I said filthy _Muggle_ , not filthy _half-blood._ And even still, you know I didn’t mean it like _that_. I don’t think that way anymore.”

Pansy’s incredulous laugh rings out.

“I’m sorry, do you have something to say?” Blaise asks, glancing over at Pansy.

“Why are you even here if you’re going to be such a tosser?” Pansy snaps.

Blaise smiles cruelly at her. “I’m here to serve as the thorn in your side, darling.”

“You do that well enough when you’re not in her presence. You’re drunk and being an arse,” Draco finally speaks up, growing bored of the petty insults they’ve been exchanging between each other since arriving at Theo’s. Draco snaps his fingers and immediately an elf pops into existence before him. “Another gin with just a splash of tonic.” He sighs and leans back in his seat as the elf pops out of existence.

“Poor little Lord Malfoy with the weight of the world on his shoulders,” Blaise drawls, his dark eyes sparking with fire as they roam over Draco.

It’s a look Draco is becoming increasingly familiar with since their lunch with Bitty. A look he now thinks about in the middle of the night, when his cock is full and throbbing and his bed is empty of a warm body beside him. A look that confuses him because he knows that Blaise doesn’t feel that way for him, but he still finds himself squirming in his seat under the gaze. He’s happily distracted when the elf returns with his drink.

“You have been quite off lately, love,” Millie says, her dark eyes full of concern.

Draco shrugs. “I’ve unfortunately been suffused with a terrible case of ennui,” he says with a dramatic sigh.

Blaise scoffs.

“Actually. You haven’t been the same since Saeed left,” Millie muses, her expression questioning. “You know you can talk to us, right, Draco?”

He cringes as he tears his gaze away from Millie’s frown. Can he talk about this with them? They’re all such a cynical bunch, he can’t seriously see himself dredging up the details of his breakup with Saeed Shafiq: brilliant solicitor turned professor and son of the Wizengamot’s Golden Star, Ahmed Shafiq. It’s not something he feels mentally strong enough to do at the moment anyway, especially when Blaise is smirking at him in such a taunting way, the bastard. Trying to clear his mind of the breakup was one of his reasons for escaping to Italy…and look how well that turned out.

Draco met Saeed during the last year of his LLM program at the prestigious Merlin’s School of Wizarding Law in Central London. Saeed was the professor on Draco’s module, Advanced Negotiation: Criminal Context. Even though Draco was top of his class, plenty of his peers still considered him ‘that evil ex-Death Eater’ and generally refused to work with him or invite him to study groups. In a sea of hostility, Saeed’s tutelage, friendship, and ultimately his love, had been a breath of fresh air during a tough time. He had breathed life back into Draco. They spent most of their nights wrapped around each other, poring over texts, discussing the mechanics and moralities of Wizard law. Saeed would tell Draco often just how brilliant he thought he was. It was lovely.

But their breakup had been a nasty business. Saeed’s mother, Farida, caught them together in a terribly compromising position– Saeed on his knees with Draco’s cock down his throat – in the Shafiq London parlour one wintry afternoon. Saeed initially thought his family to be spending the weekend at their country manor, so they had taken the quiet of the house as a personal challenge. They had planned for shrieking and moaning to fill each room, just not the shrieking, tears, and awful swearing of Farida. She had Draco running from the house, half-dressed and mortified at having been caught with his pants down.

Rumours about Draco then spread like Fiendfyre. All of the _Society_ pages reported on his ‘eligibility’: polls were taken to determine if he was ‘the right fit’ for an intellectual like Saeed Shafiq, if he was actually ‘reformed’, and if bisexuality was a real sexual identity. But none of it mattered. Saeed chose the approval of his mummy in the end.

“Leave the poor sod alone, silly-Millie,” Theo says, his hand absently reaching out to squeeze Millie’s knee. “Draco. Chin up, mate. I’m about to rock your socks.”

Draco’s stomach tightens unpleasantly as he nervously eyes the powdery white substance on the glass table before them as he sets his drink down. “Leave off, Theo. I don’t think I’m interested anymore.”

“C’mon, mate.” Theo pouts. “You said you weren’t going to back out.”

“I don’t know.” Draco’s knee starts to bounce as Theo leans forward to snort up a line.

It looks easy enough, but he doesn’t know what it’ll do to him. He just can’t comprehend Theo’s sudden obsession with the Muggle drug. Perhaps it has to do with all he lost in the war? It’s true that Theo’s been a bit...wonky since losing his Father during the war. Not to mention, he chooses to stay at Nott Manor guarding its rooms and grounds like some sort of mausoleum when personally Draco would’ve sold it off to take up permanent residence at the Nott London property. Out here in Surrey, with no family and just Theo with an army of house-elves, Draco can see why his friend is slowly losing the plot. Merlin knows what he does to fill his days— Draco’s unaware of any kind of profession Theo’s taken up outside of using, sharing, and selling Muggle drugs to pureblood socialites.

“Don’t be afraid. Mills has done it,” Theo reassures.

“Once,” Millie says with a smirk. “Not quite my cup of tea.”

“Can you die from it?” Pansy asks, chewing on her bottom lip.

Theo gives a wild bark of laughter, strangely resembling a rabid dog. “Maybe if you snort up my entire stash you might, mind you, my stash is—”

“Do you know how disgusting you sound?” Blaise suddenly interrupts. His face contorting into a look of disgust. “You sound utterly insane. For Merlin’s sake, Nott, look at yourself! You’re an utter mess _.”_

“An utterly wonderful, beautiful, enigmatic mess,” Theo says with a crooked grin, running a hand through his wild brown locks before shaking his head.

“I’ll do it if Blaise will,” Draco says, his hands clenching into sweaty fists.

“Absolutely fucking not,” Blaise hisses.

Draco shrugs, once again looking away from the small, thin, white lines.

“Don’t be afraid, Draco,” Millie teases.

“I’m not afraid! I just—I don’t fancy a runny nose is all.” Draco’s lip curls in disgust. “Your nose is like a faucet right now, Nott.”

“What?” Theo says distractedly, using the back of his hand to wipe across his nose. “All better.”

“Disgusting twat,” Pansy mutters before glancing at Draco. “Go on, darling; I’ll do it along with you.”

Blaise clears his throat. “Well. I’ve been drinking since lunchtime...” he starts, getting to his feet, “...I’m afraid I’m now rather tight.”

“Are you off to coddle your child-bride?” Pansy scoffs.

“Jealousy is a terribly ugly look on you, Pans,” Blaise says casually, smoothing down his pale pink tie and adjusting the cuffs of his off-white lounge jacket.

“Fuck you.”

“We’ve done that, remember? It wasn’t very good.”

Pansy inhales sharply.

“Settle down now, children. Mummy is trying to do her drugs in peace,” Theo quips, pinching the bridge of his nose as he tilts his head back, sniffling.

Millie giggles as she takes a sip from her drink.

“I’ll see you all at the Annual Shafiq Quidditch match,” Blaise says dismissively, his eyes hard. With a final scornful look around the room, he glides out as an elf pops up to lead him to the Apparition room.

“Pompous arse,” Pansy mutters, sliding from off the chaise to land on her knees before Theo’s little set-up on the glass coffee table. She bites her lower lip and gives a small shimmy of her shoulders, gearing herself up. “Show me how to fucking do this.”

Draco finally gives in.

After a few lines it feels like he’s been strung upside down: all the blood rushes to the top of his head, fiercely pumping through his much too-thin blood vessels. His skin suddenly feels hot and nearly unbearable to touch as his eyes water from the horrid taste dripping down the back of his throat. He feels like he’s been hit with a Stinging Hex, his whole body tightening but awakening with an explosive surge of jittery nerves, each climbing atop one another, vying to be the first to burst from the top of his head. He feels like he’s flying. Only without a fucking broom.

“What. The. _Fuck_ ,” he gasps out weakly between clenched teeth, sitting up straighter than he thinks is physically possible. “I can’t feel my face,” Draco whispers, touching his fingertips to his cheeks.

Theo’s head tilts back and he laughs, the sound wild and terrifying.

Draco only snaps out of his daze when he hears Pansy gagging, her hands flying up to her nose, eyes watering.

“Oh! Oh my!” she cries out hoarsely, her hands fanning her face. “Merlin, Theo—”

“You don’t have to thank me, the pleasure is all mine,” Theo drawls.

“That was absolutely awful!” she finishes.

Millie finally puts aside her manuscript, plucking her carefully floating martini glass out of the air.

“Fuck it, I’m bored. Line me up, Theo,” she says enthusiastically, tossing back the remaining contents of her drink and sitting beside Pansy.

“Hey-ho, needs must!” Theo responds, vibrating with excitement as he fixes four sets of three long thin lines.

“I don’t want anymore. That bloody hurt,” Pansy whines, using a pink-lacquered nail to tap the tip of her nose.

“Maybe you did it wrong,” Draco says, his knee once again bouncing but now for an entirely different reason. Everyone but Pansy does another round. “I feel…” he trails off when he’s done, trying to find the right words. He feels fucking wired. He feels invincible _._ He feels…

“I feel fucking _infinite_ ,” Theo finishes for him, completely encapsulating Draco’s own thoughts.

“Yes,” Draco says quietly. That’s exactly it. He’s infinite and he fleetingly thinks that perhaps, maybe, there is meaning to his life after all. How can there not be when he can still feel this kind of rush of excitement?

Millie looks down at her wristwatch. “It’s just gone ten. We should go to a club.”

“I’m not dressed for a nightclub, especially if we’re doing Muggle,” Pansy says with a pout, looking down at herself.

Draco thinks her short, hot pink dress is fine for a night out.

“I think a pub sounds pretty great,” Draco suggests.

“I want to do something wild!” Theo cries out.

Draco nods, feeling himself drifting a bit. He clenches the armrest of his chair, trying to steady himself. “That’s a pretty great idea.”

“No thanks,” Millie says. “The last time you suggested doing something wild, Theo, I ended up in your bed.”

“Ah, that was the _best_ , cheers. I can’t wait to get you there again.”

Millie laughs. “In your dreams, Nott.”

“Oh, it definitely happens there, too.”

Millie rolls her eyes. “I think I heard Marcus say at the Selwyn’s that he was having a do tonight at his parents’ Knightsbridge home before they close up for the summer.”

“I love that house. I say, when did the Flint’s become so sophisticated? They’re absolutely horrid people, but have you seen their new conservatory? Gorgeous. Absolutely gorgeous,” Draco rambles, now entwining his fingers together to crack them.

His heart is starting to race, but he can’t get over how sprightly he feels. That hole that’s been in his chest is so full of joy right now. _Wow_ , he thinks as he uses his freshly cracked fingers to rub at his still-numb face.

Pansy snorts. “They hired a Muggleborn to build it, did you know?”

“I think that’s pretty great,” Draco responds, nodding.

“You think everything is ‘pretty great’ right now,” Millie says with a teasing grin.

“They’re so full of it! As if we don’t know all the awful things they say about their daughter-in-law and her family. And they’re _half-bloods!_ ” Pansy says angrily.

Draco’s suddenly reminded of Tracey’s tear-stained face as she pushes the scroll of secrets (a term Draco has been using in his head frequently since passing it off to Potter) into his hands. His brain, in this moment, won’t let him feel the immense panic and concern that usually overcomes him when he thinks about that scroll or Tracey’s dire situation, stuck in a possibly violent marriage, carrying burdens on her shoulders that no one should have to suffer. Instead, his mind drifts, and he wonders when Theo will stop bogarting the drugs.

“The last time I was at their house, Marcus showed me this brilliant phonograph, unquestionably one of a kind. The wanker’s been showing it off to anyone that’ll spare him a few minutes,” Theo grouses.

“Only you would find a bloody phonograph brilliant, you swotty twat,” Pansy says, folding her arms atop a free spot on the glass table before her.

Theo sighs happily. “Yeah, I should have taken it when he wasn’t looking, the smug bastard.”

Draco laughs. “Why don’t you go take it now. You said you want to do something wild.”

“Don’t encourage him, Draco. We all know he’s barking!” Millie cries.

“Wait!” Theo exclaims. “Hold on a minute here, I think you’re onto something, Draco! Why _not_ give it a go? I can snag the phonograph and you can take whatever strikes your fancy.”

“As lovely as the new additions are to the Flint property, there’s nothing that that gormless family has that I want or don’t already own,” Draco says, running a hand through his hair. “I want for _nothing_.”

Millie snorts, glancing at Theo and Pansy. “Merlin, I believe him, the smug bastard,” she mutters.

“Well, let’s up the ante then, shall we? We can pay a visit to the Shafiq’s London property,” Theo counters.

Draco stares at him, unblinking. “You _are_ barking, Theo. I’m not going to rob the Shafiq's property! And they’re probably home, too, wanker.”

“Surely they’ll be down in Berkshire by now?” Millie cuts in, rubbing some of the remaining powder onto her gums as she looks up at Draco.

“Why would they be in Berkshire?” Pansy asks.

“Idiot, the bloody Quidditch match is being held at their estate in Maidenhead. They’ve definitely traveled to their main estate for the summer to prepare for that,” Theo says, leaning back in his armchair and crossing his legs. “This is a perfect idea. Imagine, Draco. We can help you take your revenge.”

Draco snorts. “By doing what? Stealing some problematic, gaudy jewellery from Farida Shafiq?”

“Problematic?” Millie asks, bemused.

“She definitely owns some blood diamonds,” Theo answers.

“I’ve seen them,” Draco says, shaking his head. “Absolutely tasteless.”

Millie’s eyebrows furrow. “I heard the Selwyns have dealings in the Muggle Black Market.”

“Probably the Shafiq’s as well,” Theo says.

Pansy suddenly blows out an angry puff of air. “Farida’s a horrid gossip! I’d say rob her for that truth about her alone. She told people that Blaise broke up with me because I was having an affair with Sebastian Rowle!”

At this, everyone winces. Poor Pansy, Draco thinks soberly. She was dealing with her break up with the utmost dignity, but that rumour sent Pansy spiralling, what with Sebastian being an old wretched man, married, and ugly as all sin. But what Pansy found particularly troubling was how fast people made to believe the rumour. Pansy may take advantage of the rumour mill for her own benefit, but she rarely, if ever, actively contributes to it. The whispered words she faced when visiting restaurants and weekend parties would send any sane person towards _at_ _least_ a drinking problem. Pansy instead threw all her energy into her art gallery and developed an online shopping addiction as a means to cope.

“She’s not a good person,” Millie says, a sullen look on her face. “Do you know she still calls Muggleborns the “M” word? My mother told me! She heard Farida utter the word right in front of her! You know how hard mother tries to fit in with them, though I keep telling her to leave off, even now with the popularity of half-bloods. Thankfully my father wasn’t around or he would have given Farida a piece of his mind. Add that to the fact that she refuses to pay her elves, and now you’re telling me she owns awful, illegal Muggle objects? Merlin, she’s a bitch and I wish nothing but an ill-fated future for her, but you all are out of your bloody minds if you’re serious right now about robbing her.”

“My elves refuse to take payment,” Theo says. “Not that I’m gonna complain about it.”

Draco shakes his head. He’s personally heard Farida call people Mudbloods. Even after being on the losing side, she’s still a Blood Purist. She gets away with a lot of awful shit behind the scenes because her husband is on the Wizengamot and she puts on such a hard exterior of inclusivity and cheer when she’s around her Society ladies.

“We should rob Bitty,” Pansy mutters.

They all bristle in their seats.

“Blaise will kill us,” Millie snorts.

Draco nods in agreeance.

“That’s not a good idea, Pansy. Merlin forbid if she ever finds out it was us? We’d never hear the end of it from Blaise,” Theo says.

Pansy’s jaw drops. “You _all_ can’t be afraid of _bloody_ _Blaise!_ ” She says incredulously.

There’s a moment of silence before Draco, Millie and Theo all say, “Uh, yeah”, “yup” and “I am.”

Pansy folds her arms against her chest. “You’re all a bunch of spineless wankers.”

“Says the person who’s never been hexed by him! He’s capable of a wickedly strong knee reversal hex that’ll leave you limping for weeks,” Theo says with a cringe.

Draco laughs, having seen Theo on the receiving end of Blaise’s speciality hex several glorious times at Hogwarts.

Draco leans back into his seat. They’re right, though. Robbing Bitty would be crossing a line, but the more they discuss the topic of breaking and entering, the more riled up Draco becomes. He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. He’s becoming aroused by the mere thought of just fucking some shit up right now, the urge and sensation strong and confusing enough that he starts to sweat. He unbuttons the top of his blue pastel silk shirt and runs a hand through his slightly damp white locks.

“Okay. The Shafiq’s,” Draco says with a nod. “We’ll do the Shafiq’s.”

Millie laughs, her curls bouncing. “Pull the other one!”

“I’m in,” Theo says.

“Me too,” Pansy says, now standing from the floor, sniffling. “I don’t give a fuck about the repercussions.”

“Ah, I do,” Millie says, raising her hand. “Unlike you lot, I don’t have a fancy solicitor on call if I get arrested by the Aurors.”

“I’ll represent you,” Draco reassures her, placing his clammy hand on her shoulder.

Millie shrugs it off. “ _Uh_ , _no_. You won’t because you’ll be in the holding cell next to mine. Dickhead.”

“Come on, we’ll be _fine,_ ” Theo says, ruffling Millie’s hair. “Don’t be such a spoilsport!”

She pulls out her wand and hits Theo with a Stinging hex.

\---

It takes several more minutes of barbed comments (mostly from Millie) and a few more pearly white lines to convince Millie to come along. They Apparate, landing at the end of Old York Road in Wandsworth, just a minute walk to the Shafiq’s property. As they approach the centre of the street, a large four-storey detached house pops into existence, massive enough to overwhelm all the surrounding attached and detached houses. There’s a lovely manicured garden in the front.

Draco sneers at seeing the property again after such a long time. Theo is a messy, long-limbed bundle of nerves, bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet, teeth grinding as he murmurs out small affirmations, and it pulls Draco from his sour mood.

“We’re going to kick so much arse right now…” Draco catches him saying. “We’re going to rule the fucking world!”

Draco can understand the frantic need to _move, move, move_ — he’s been running his hands through his hair like crazy since finishing off Theo’s eight-ball and downing some more gin and tonic—but Theo sounds hysterical.

“Theo, mate…” Draco starts, but stops when he catches sight of Pansy withdrawing her wand from her handbag. His hand darts out to wrap around her wrist, adrenaline pumping through his veins. “No! Don’t. We’re doing everything the Muggle way. We don’t want to alert any of the house-elves if they’re around or leave behind any kind of magical signature, got it?” he says, glancing back at Millie and Theo.

“Won’t the house-elves be at the larger estate?” Theo whispers.

“I’d rather not find out, so it’s best to avoid the kitchens if you can,” Millie says.

“How are we going to get into the house?” Pansy asks, voice frantic as she grips the ends of her short bob.

“Merlin, I knew we shouldn’t have come here,” Millie says wildly, spinning on her heel and jabbing a finger into the centre of Theo’s chest. “This is your fault, getting us this fucked up and belligerent!”

“I’m your supplier, baby, not your voice of reason,” Theo says smoothly, curling an arm around Millie’s shoulders to pull her flush against him.

“Shush! Just because we’re Disillusioned doesn’t mean people can’t bloody hear us! C’mon!” Pansy says suddenly, her face now refreshingly alert and her posture straight as an iron rod as she beckons them towards a large bush on the side of the house.

It’s typical Pansy...just when you think she’s about to succumb to her circumstances, she triumphs over them spectacularly. In this case: reining in everyone’s collective panic. Even as they all gather close together, and Draco has never felt so bloody ridiculous, he is at least hopeful they’ll survive this without an ambush from Aurors.

He groans. “Look, maybe we can check the front windows and—"

Just then, there’s a rattling at the Shafiq’s front door. They all tense. A small, white panel appears in the corner of the majestic front door which then slides open.

Out pops a dog.

“Bloody hell, they have a _dog!_ ” Theo cries, backing away.

Draco bites back a cackle. Theo’s fear of dogs is well-known, but the one approaching them is so thin and tiny— Farida Shafiq’s precious 4-month old grey and white whippet. Draco remembers Saeed telling him about the number of shady breeders Farida visited to find one that was a _true_ Pureblood. It’s now prancing towards them, wearing the most ostentatious collar he’s ever seen—black leather with encrusted diamonds.

Pansy coos and leans forward to pet it. “Oh, Draco!” she starts, her face lighting up with mirth as she glances up at him. “You can squeeze through the doggy door, you’re whippet-thin.”

“I am _not_ going through a fucking doggy door.” Draco folds his arms. “Theo can do it, He’s just as skinny as I am.”

“I don’t think so, my shoulders are broader than yours.”

“What a load of codswallop! _”_ Draco hisses. “Either way, I’m too bloody tall!”

“What does that matter?” Theo shoots back. “We’re practically the same height.”

“No we’re not!”

“Why don’t you two stand back-to-back so we can see?” Millie suggests, now squatting in front of the dog.

Draco and Theo make eye contact and shrug, both turning around to press their backs together.

“Well?” Draco snaps, staring at the two girls now petting and coddling the puppy.

“I wonder how they keep it on the property?” Millie muses, her hand scratching the back of its ears.

“Mummy uses the same collar on her Afghan Hounds,” Pansy says, fingering the ridiculous collar. “It zaps them if they get too close to the restricted perimeter around the estate.”

“Merlin, that’s cruel,” Millie says.

“I’m not going through the door,” Theo says haughtily.

“ _Fine!_ Fuck it all to hell!” Draco bites, stepping away from Theo and throwing his hands up. “I’ll do it.”

“Clever lad,” Theo says, clapping him on the shoulder.

“Oh, fuck off,” Draco says, jerking away from him.

When Draco approaches the door, he realises with a hint of mortification that the bottom of the doggy door has streaks of mud on it. Without quite thinking, he places a hand on the doorknob and to his utter fucking surprise and shock, it turns. And opens. Adrenaline rushes through him once more.

He seethes.

Imagine being so confident and at ease with your position in life that your wards lack the necessary security needed to keep people like Draco out. These Purebloods have no fear in post-war Britain. They think they’re safe, somehow exonerated from all of their crimes against humanity committed during the war. The Shafiqs, despite their post-war charities focussed on Squibs and the integration of Muggle technology with Wizarding, were still just as dark as the Malfoys. They were just able to hide it better, and didn’t crave the power Lucius had. Everyone in the Shafiq family, apart from Farida herself, from the last 100-years or so, graduated from Durmstrang. All of them studied the Dark Arts and all of them aided Voldemort’s rise in both wars in some subtle way – whether by throwing money to his cause or offering up safe houses for his followers.

Draco’s not sure if he has a soul anymore and if he does, it’s probably damaged beyond repair after receiving the Mark—but he knows deep down in the pit of him, it’s disgusting to think that anyone on the wrong side of the war should feel this free. Draco carries his crimes with him like a stench, never able to fully wash away the smell. He’ll carry it with him until he’s on his deathbed, maybe even into the afterlife, because he never wants to forget what he did. He’ll do his penance, even if it takes him the rest of his life to finally feel ready enough to say, “Forgive me.”

There’s a collective cheer behind him when he pushes the wide door open, the whippet jets past him to re-enter the house. They all enter the foyer. A low whistling sound comes from Millie as she looks up at the massive crystal chandelier centred before the colossal grand staircase.

“I think it’s bigger than your new one at the Manor,” she quips, stepping around him to enter the elegant drawing room. Draco shrugs.

“I’ll give the Shafiq’s this one —they have _exquisite_ taste when it comes to interior design. Mummy was sick with jealousy when she saw their newly remodeled ballroom last Autumn,” Pansy says, staring up at the chandelier in awe.

Draco lingers in the foyer, not quite knowing where to go or what to even take. There are paintings of the Shafiq ancestors down the corridor leading to the library and smaller drawing rooms, and it dawns on him that it’s probably best to avoid that part of the house. The older the painting, the better the inhabitants will be able to see through their Disillusionment charm. Old magic is clever that way. Theo sidles up beside him, nudging him in the side.

“Fancy a top-up before we get started?”

Draco tilts his head and gives a little shrug. “What do you have in mind?”

Theo grins and shoves his hand into his pocket to produce a small, silver cylinder object. “It’s a snuff bullet. You just put it up your nostril like so, hold the other nostril down, and give it your best snort to get it all up there,” Theo explains while demonstrating. He shivers when he snorts the contents back, his eyes closing and a small blissful look crossing his angular features. When he opens his eyes, they’re watery. He hands the snuff bullet to Draco. “Have fun, mate,” Theo says, walking off to follow Pansy and Millie.

“Tell them to keep out of the corridors, the Shafiq ancestors are there. Just stick to the main rooms and bedrooms,” he warns. Theo nods and gives him a short salute.

Draco turns the small snuff bullet over in his hands. There’s a bubbling fear in the pit of his stomach that’s now making itself known. He knows what it feels like to enjoy something dangerous too much. Merlin knows that the desire to be a powerful and successful Death Eater was irresistible to him long before he took the Mark. He was scared as all hell, but he craved proving himself, craved having Lucius’s approval and protecting his Mother. This cocaine makes him feel powerful, and it’s a slippery slope towards absolute chaos and fuckery.

He doesn’t care.

He’s not hurting anyone any more by enjoying this kind of power. At least this time, Draco’s not poisoning anyone by poisoning himself.

Draco snorts back the contents, waiting for that familiar dripping sensation to trickle down the back of his throat. He takes one more shot from it before sighing contentedly and shoving it in his back pocket beside his wand.

He makes his way up the grand staircase, feeling only slightly pathetic for his need to step into Saeed’s bedroom. They shared some beautiful nights wrapped around each other there.

Pushing open the door with a shoulder, Draco feels a bit weak, suddenly overcome with memories of them lounging together in this room, the whole house to themselves as Saeed’s parents took to their country estate. They would talk about the Muggles Foucault and Marx in relation to Wizard law and sociology, discuss their worries over the rising London pollution, share stories about how they both suffered during the war: Draco in the thick of it and Saeed distancing himself from the conflict and his parents’ secret involvement.

He steps into this room that was once their classroom, their dining room, their escape as his fingers graze the soft silk material of the bed sheets. He smiles at the small Muggle picture Saeed has on his bedside table, a lovely black and white portrait of his friends from Durmstrang. Saeed enjoys Muggle photography and fashions, quite the photographer. Draco loves—loved _?_ —that about him. Draco had never allowed himself to become so intimate, so close to another person like that before. He’s not even sure he has the capacity to do it again, the thought of it exploding in his face or slipping through his fingers again just too upsetting.

Saeed took a part of Draco with him when he broke things off.

Draco thinks it was the only good part of him—a small part filled to the brim with optimism. The part that felt safe and confident within his own skin. It’s a piece Draco hasn’t been able to replace with anything else, and Merlin knows he’s tried with sex, with his education, with his new job, and his friends. None of it works. And none of it matters. He’s realising that everything about his life, from his job to his friends, is all utterly pointless.

He throws himself across the bed, sinking into the soft fabric, the mattress encircling him like a hug from an old friend. If he pretends hard enough he can smell the sharp citrusy scent of Saeed’s aftershave. He pulls a pillow into his arms, curling around it to hold against his chest, trying to recall the last happy memory he has of them before their relationship became botched.

It wasn’t that Saeed intentionally hid his relationship from his parents. Or at least that’s the lie Draco feeds himself to stave off the painful ache of reality.

After a few more moments Draco draws in a shaky breath. _Okay. Enough of this shit,_ he thinks, pulling himself off the bed. As he heads to the door, his gaze catches on a small jewellery box on the chest of drawers. He makes his way towards it and uses the tip of his index finger to flick back the lid.

The pocket-watch he gave Saeed for his 28th birthday is placed inside of it. It’ll be enough.

He pockets it.

\---

Draco finds Pansy in Saeed’s little sister Tina’s bedroom, elbows deep in her wardrobe.

“Can you believe she has _Mui Mui_ I haven’t even fucking seen before?” Pansy proclaims, aghast. She nods towards a small bundle of clothing draped across the bed. “Those are my findings. I suppose, who is going to know it belonged to her if I alter the colour and cut a bit?”

“Aren’t you clever,” Draco drawls, leaning against the wall and pulling out Theo’s snuff bullet.

“You look a mess,” Pansy comments, her eyes narrowing. “Anything you want to talk about?”

Draco makes a snorting noise as the taste of the drug hits him. It’s come down a strange way this time, but once again he feels the tendrils of its Muggle magic working through him to dull his anguish and make his heart leap and spirits twirl. He can’t believe Muggles have perfected something so glorious, so fascinating.

“What do you mean?” he tries to say casually.

“You can admit that you’re upset. And that maybe in your head, robbing your ex-boyfriend’s childhood home may come off as a bit pathetic.”

Draco stiffens. “Well, you’re pathetic right along with me, aren’t you? You’re bloody stealing from a seventeen-year old girl.”

“An _eighteen-year_ _old_ girl with _impeccable_ taste,” Pansy corrects, once again turning back to the wardrobe to pull out a green frock. She steps back to look into the mirror attached to the door of the wardrobe, holding the dress against her before shoving it back into its rightful place. “This little adventure works out for me at the end of the day.” Pansy sighs, glancing over at him. “What I’m trying to say is that I get it. I understand where you’re coming from.”

Draco pushes himself off the wall then, choosing not to respond to Pansy’s rare show of outspoken kindness. He slowly makes his way to Tina’s chest of drawers to peer over the small trinkets carefully laid out.

Sat between a steel handheld mirror and a tiny stuffed pygmy puff toy is a small music box with an intricately carved, floral cover. It radiates Dark magic.

“What the fuck _,_ ” Draco breathes, his eyes growing wide as he stumbles towards the artefact. It’s emanating so much Dark energy that Draco’s stomach churns. Why is something like this kept in a _teen’s_ _bedroom_?

“Pansy,” Draco swallows, his voice an urgent whisper. She ignores him. “ _Pansy_ ,” he hisses to get her attention.

“Hmm?” she says, turning around to face him with a quirked eyebrow.

“This music box is Dark. Did you know?”

“What music box?”

“This one right here,” Draco says, pointing to it. This close, he can feel a sinister, ominous tendril of magic take root in the back of his head. It’s a tiny voice filling his skull, quietly begging him to open it. “I—I think I want to open it,” Draco whispers, inching closer to the object.

“Don’t be daft!” Pansy suddenly shouts, startling Draco from out of his trance. “You don’t know what it is. Do you want to be cursed to hell and back?”

Draco shakes himself, quickly taking several steps back. “Why would this be in a teenager’s bedroom?” he asks as he runs a hand through his hair, fingers trembling.

Pansy laughs. “Are you kidding me? I don’t care how googly-eyed the Shafiq’s become when people mention Muggleborn rights or whatever, they’re Dark as all hell. Probably Darker than your family. Hell, probably worse than the Blacks. I’d bet my inheritance that they gave that to Tina as a coming of age gift. It probably has some sort of wicked love magic attached to it...we know they have a flair for romantic tragedies,” she says pointedly.

Draco rolls his eyes at that. “The Ministry removed all of our Dark heirlooms after the war. They went through all the prominent Pureblood families.”

Once again, Pansy laughs in her familiar tight, condescending way. “Darling, the Shafiq’s are a well-liked family by the Ministry. Did you know Ahmed donated to Shacklebolt’s campaign for Minister for Magic? That’s a sure way to remain under the radar.”

“I didn’t know that,” Draco says, coming to sit on the bed beside Pansy’s stack of clothing. Ahmed Shafiq. Draco makes it his utmost mission to never run into the man at work or in the Courtrooms without the Chief Prosecutor at his side for fear of being openly scolded again, his encounter in front of Potter’s office still fresh in his mind. “I knew they were well-liked, I mean, Farida has a deft hand at promoting her charities. I’d even say she’s better than Mother and Dany in that regard. Merlin, this is all so messed up.”

Pansy walks over to him then, pressing the front of her bare thighs to his knees, one hand coming to rest on his shoulder as she sinks the fingers of her other hand into his hair. She tightens her grip and tugs his head back so he can look at her.

“Draco Lucius Malfoy. I know no one has the balls to tell you this, but I don’t have balls, so you’re going to hear it from me: you’re a good man. You have turned your life around and yes, you’ve suffered a bit of a setback, but you don’t need some arsehole in your life to make you feel like you’re living. If you need someone to remind you of that, dear, you bloody have _me._ I know coming here and robbing the Shafiq's blind is your little attempt at self-care, but I just want you to know that you’re going to be okay. And that I love you, and I’m not saying this just because I’m high off my tits. I actually do love you, you smarmy bastard.”

Draco chuckles, his heart soaring at the love he feels for his best friend. He lifts his arms to wrap loosely around Pansy’s waist, pulling her in closer. He presses his face into her stomach.

“You’re such a lovely bitch,” he says, voice muffled.

“And don’t you ever forget it,” Pansy giggles, leaning forward to place a kiss in his hair. “Now get the fuck off my new dresses.”

She releases him, pushing him back gently to tug free the dress that’s caught under his arse. Draco grins at her. He can always count on Pansy to make him feel marginally less awful.

He stands then, stretching his body out before placing his hands on the back of his hips. He sighs, shoulders sagging as he glances back at the music box. “I think I should take that box.”

Pansy tsks, a moue of annoyance crossing her face. “I don’t think so. Leave that bloody thing alone, you don’t know what the magic is. I mean, really, what if touching it curses you with genital warts because you’re not a blood relative?”

A good point, Draco thinks, inclining his head. Standing close to it made him want to touch it, the draw not as strong as an _Imperius_ , but just as troubling. For one spiralling moment Draco realises that he’s an official of the Ministry _._ That it’s his bloody duty to report this kind of shit...even if he is robbing the place. Fuck it.

“I’m going to take this bloody thing,” he says again, resolutely.

“And do what with it?”

Draco shrugs. “Drop it off at the Ministry?”

Pansy sighs. “And how do you expect to pick it up? We can’t use magic.”

Draco rubs his chin. “We just need to put it in something,” he says thoughtfully. “Pewter...gold...even...silver? Yeah, right? Maybe even silver would keep the worse of the Dark draw from whomever is holding it.”

“Like this?”

Draco and Pansy both turn towards the door where Theo is framed and holding…

A bloody cloche.

“That’s actually perfect!” Draco beams just as Pansy groans out, “What is _wrong_ with you?”

“I was thirsty, so I went to the kitchens and found this lovely item along the way.” Theo explains with a shrug, now handing the silver platter over to Draco, who quickly removes the lid to hand back to Theo. “I see what I see, and I like what I like.”

“You’re an idiot, Nott,” Pansy grouses with a flat look. “I thought Millie said to avoid the kitchens!”

“Will you relax? If there was an elf, I didn’t see one. Plus, inside of our little group, we’re still Disillusioned,” he says, a silly smile crossing his face.

Draco doesn’t comment that house elves can see through Disillusionments, instead he makes his way over to the object, the Dark magic once again pulling nauseatingly at his stomach. Theo stands beside him, appearing completely unfazed by the Dark pull. Then again, the Notts were known for their open relationship with the Dark Arts. Theo had Dark objects as bloody _toys_ when he was a kid. Draco had stood beside him the day the Ministry removed over a hundred Dark items from his Surrey estate that first year after the war. With Theo’s father dead and Theo lacking direct connections to the war, their estate was instead heavily fined and investigated by the Ministry. This meant no Azkaban for the only remaining Nott.

Draco glances around the chest of drawers, his gaze falling on the handheld mirror. As he reaches for it, Theo stops him.

“Use this,” he says, pulling from his back pocket a handkerchief. “Just in case? We don’t want to leave behind any evidence, do we? Millie and I have been wiping away anything we touch.”

Draco takes it from him, expression shocked. It’s an extra precaution that’s appreciated, as the Aurors are always adopting new investigative skills. Theo has that effect on people, but it still throws him off from time to time when he recalls just how intuitive and sharp his friend is.

“Thanks,” Draco says as he wraps the cloth around the handle of the mirror, using the wide end to slide the cursed music box onto the silver platter. Theo then places the lid over it and takes it from Draco’s hands.

“Now serving up cursed object number one!” Theo says with a bow.

Draco laughs.

\----

As Draco descends the grand staircase, he finds he has to stop every few steps because the Shafiq’s whippet is harassing him, jumping up Draco’s legs and stopping on the step below to block him. Small yips escape it as it lifts its thin face and large pleading dark eyes up to Draco.

“I’m not going to pet you so leave me alone!” he hisses, trying to move around the dog, nearly losing his balance. “You’re going to kill us both on this bloody staircase!”

Even as they make it safely to the foyer, the dog doesn’t let up. Theo, already lingering in the foyer holding the cloche to his chest, chuckles upon seeing them.

“What’s wrong with that thing?”

“Fuck if I know! Leave, you mutt, go away!” Draco cries, using his foot to gently push away the jumping puppy. “I said leave me alone or I’ll—”

And then it hits him. The collar blings bright in the low lighting as Draco bends forward to read the cursive on the silver tag – SPRINKLES. What a ridiculous fucking name.

“Yes,” Draco says slowly. “Brilliant!” he cries, jumping up and punching a fist into the air.

He’s now bouncing on the balls of his feet, much like Theo was earlier. He once again reaches out to the dog, who gives an excited yelp, tail wagging furiously, as it pushes its head into Draco’s palm.

“Merlin. You’re a cute little bugger, aren’t you? Mummy Shafiq is going to just _shit_ herself when she realises you’re gone, isn’t she?” He lifts the thin dog into his arms, immediately feeling an odd protectiveness for this gentle, fragile creature. He’s surprised Sprinkles is so copacetic about this whole kidnapping thing, even going as far as to eagerly lick Draco’s chin.

“C’mon, let’s go, _let’s go!_ ” Draco calls out urgently, Sprinkles tucked under one arm, the other gesticulating wildly towards the front door, when he sees Pansy pop out of the sitting room, arms full of clothing.

Pansy’s eyes zero in on the dog, and she shakes her head as if to clear it. Draco can’t help the grin that tugs at his lips.

“No…” Pansy says slowly. “You’re _not_ serious.”

“No!” Millie cries, now approaching them, a few books cradled against her chest. Her jaw hangs in shock. “You can’t take the woman’s dog!”

“Fuck her! This is my greatest accomplishment yet,” he says haughtily, lifting the dog to eye-level to press a kiss to its damp nose. “Alright, Sprinkles, I’m gonna take you to the promiseland, also known as my townhouse, yeah?”

The dog licks his cheek.

As they head out the front door, Theo again hands Draco his handkerchief to wipe away their handprints on the doorknob. Draco turns around once more—dog under his arm, nose slightly runny from the copious amount of drugs, and a deep-seated satisfaction unfurling in his chest. He uses the handkerchief to undo Sprinkles’ collar.

“You’re free now,” he says to the dog, tossing the pretentious collar across the foyer. He can’t help but feel like some small part of himself is free now, too.

He then salutes the foyer with two-fingers before slamming the door shut behind him.


	5. Chapter 5

_'Cause darling when you smile_

_it's like the rain dries out._

_Now there's no more room for clouds._

_Got me singing Hallelu, Hallelu_

_When you hold my hand it just reminds me how,_

_there's still cool people in the world_

_**Cool People** _ **/Chloe x Halle**

“Tea?”

Draco jumps, his quill spilling ink all over the McKenzie file. “Fuck!” He glances up from his notations to see that Potter is framed in his doorway.

He pulls his wand out to remove the spilled ink. “I didn’t even hear the door open,” Draco says, his tone sharp.

“Well, you wouldn’t. I had the highest marks in the Corps for Stealth and Tracking.”

“ _Wow_ , Potter. You’re _so_ talented and brilliant! I’m in awe of your awesome abilities!” Draco says in faux excitement as he picks up and examines the deposition. It looks alright. He sighs heavily. “Get out.”

“But I come bearing gifts!” Potter says brightly, using his foot to quietly shut the door behind him. “A lovely cup of earl grey for this annoying bugger I know. And...a chocolate frog,” he says with a flourish, Summoning the chocolate into his hand from his pocket.

“I thought I told you to leave me alone,” Draco says. He gestures towards the tea and candy. “If this is your attempt at bribing me so I can do your bidding, or whatever, I want nothing to do with that cup of tea.”

Potter snorts. He places the items on the desk. Draco stares at them for a long moment before fixing Potter with a quirk of an eyebrow.

“You didn’t tell me to _leave you alone._ You told me to _leave you out of whatever business I may be in._ And well, Malfoy, there’s no ‘business’ of mine you need to worry yourself about.”

“Oh, really?” Draco asks archly.

Potter steps closer, a small smile on his face. He casually slips his hands into the front pockets of his trousers, hips slightly pivoting forward, his Auror robe unbuttoned and hanging open to expose jeans and a white t-shirt underneath. Draco swallows. He hates that Potter is attractive. He’s not a conventional beauty: the man has that stupid scar on his forehead, those ridiculously outdated round glasses, and hair that looks like a bird’s nest. But still. His eyes are insanely bright, his lips are full and sensuous, and there's something about him that exudes a sort of danger. It’s seductive, but Draco is fully aware of just how life-threatening seduction can be.

He can sense that there’s something lurking beyond the surface of 'cheerful war-hero Harry Potter' that’s frightening and monstrous. Perhaps even untrustworthy, and that’s saying a lot coming from someone like him. On one hand, Draco seriously, truly, wants nothing to do with the man or whatever antics he’s involved in. On the other, he wonders what it would be like to have Potter on top of him, kissing him, fucking him...

Draco draws in a breath, blinking rapidly. Merlin. He’s got the hots for Potter, and that is just simply not on. He _can’t_ find Potter attractive, the man is an actual vulture. He’s up to no good and Draco can smell it a million miles away.

“Yeah. I’m an Auror. I have missions. Tracey happens to be a witness that I’m working with and she unfortunately wasn’t able to hand over a really important document. I’m sorry she had to involve you to get it over to me, but I really do appreciate it. I wasn’t able to explain myself better the last time we chatted. Sorry,” Potter says with a shrug.

 _Chatted?_ Draco thinks. He wouldn’t go so far as to call it that. Argued, maybe. Was ignored and disrespected, definitely. And that was the sorriest sorry he’s ever heard in his life. Draco leans back in his chair and runs a hand through his hair.

“Right...I still don’t understand why you’re in my office.”

Potter starts to fiddle with the small maranta plant sat on the corner of Draco’s desk. “You have a lot to offer in your position here, Malfoy. I’d hate to see your efforts to improve our world get bogged down because of office politics, unsavoury bosses, or, you know, some Pureblood bollocks,” Potter says, not looking at him.

“Okay…what’s your point?” Draco says calmly despite the icy hot fear spreading up his spine.

It simply isn’t possible that Potter would know about Draco and his friend’s extracurricular activities. They’ve been careful, and Draco would have heard talk within the Department of Magical Law Enforcement about it. So far, all he’s heard are ‘rumours of intrigue’ from the Department of Mysteries.

Potter shrugs. “Tracey trusts you, and that’s an excellent endorsement if I’ve ever known one. You’re alright in my book, Malfoy, and I meant what I said about a truce. I’d like for us to put all our ugliness of the past behind us so we can try to, I don’t know, be friendly to one another.”

Before Draco can bite back the question, it spills from him. “Why?”

“Can’t I just want to?” With that, Potter shoots him a devastatingly charming smile and turns on his heel. “Enjoy that tea before it gets too cold,” he says, not turning around.

He slips from Draco’s office as quietly as he entered.

Draco leans back in his seat, willing his racing heart to calm down. He plucks the tea up and takes a sip to find it’s made exactly to his liking.

“Prick,” Draco mutters, smirking.

**\----**

They _always_ pop champagne afterwards.

Mapping out each estate to pillage the last three weeks hasn’t been easy but it’s been worth it. He’s found the perfect way to do all this without ever leaving even a whiff of his magical signature. They’ve adopted Muggle techniques to break in with _ease,_ and finding the best way to safely collect cursed heirlooms required _strictly_ magical properties developed beforehand. His methodologies on how to do this, he’s loath to admit, is in part thanks to Lucius.

It took him a few days to muster the mental strength to visit his father’s disused office in Malfoy Manor. When Draco finally removed the wards surrounding Lucius’s desk, he had worked up quite the sweat, not surprised at all at his father’s paranoia, even after the Aurors raided the house and his subsequent imprisonment.

Draco remembers from his childhood onward the extensive ledgers and notes Lucius owned, from musings on the Sacred Twenty-Eight’s family histories and Dark affiliations, to some of their most prized collectables. The ledgers documented trades of said items between Pureblood families as early as the 1600s. Draco found information that Lucius once used to obsessively and meticulously keep track of other Pureblood family fortunes.

Now with these documents in hand, Draco is able to prepare the appropriate protective charms on his leather gloves and rucksack before visiting each individual family estate, armed with the idea of what type of object the family would be inclined to collect. The Rowle’s loved collecting cursed Neolithic terracotta pottery from East Asia. Touching these pieces caused one’s bowels to implode. The Greengrass’s loved Victorian-era jewellery: pendants, rings, broaches. These items usually had potent love spells attached to them as they were given to reluctant suitors back then. The Shafiq’s had Mughal paintings or small jewellery boxes that would come alive and trap an observer in their illustrations or confinements if they weren’t Pureblood relatives.

It also helped that Draco, in addition to his legal mind, has a prolific grasp on Ancient Runes, 5th century Mervingian Dynasty era Runes, to be precise, thanks to Lucius. Of course Lucius had hammered such a rare, powerful type of magic into his son since infancy. The fact that most of the cursed objects Draco encountered were not even from this century only benefited him in developing the appropriate protective spells based on Mervingian theory. The average person would not be able to trace Draco’s magical signature within such ancient protective magic. Even a highly skilled researcher would have to somehow narrow down this particular strain of magic out of hundreds and thousands of different Runic iterations, and have a sample of Draco’s strain to link him to it. After all, the 5th century was an _awfully_ long time ago and Draco is _insanely_ careful when handling the stolen heirlooms.

After robbing the Shafiq’s came the Rowle’s, the Greengrass’s, the Selwyn’s, and the Fawley’s. News of Sprinkles’ disappearance hit the community first, with Farida offering an obscene amount of Galleons as a reward to get her dog back. Then slowly, chatter about specific missing objects began to circulate through the Pureblood gossip mill. No one mentions the cursed artefacts, but Draco can sense the subtle anxiety that’s gripped the Pureblood community because of it. A few stolen Muggle couture dresses or jewellery wouldn’t cause this kind of widespread panic, no. Draco knows it’s because dangerous items they previously thought were just fine to display are now missing.

Draco relishes in the fact that these insipid Purebloods are finally being exposed for what they are: overconfident zealots who are about to get their comeuppance. No one has a clue it’s them, and they’ve all promised not to tell Blaise. He can be such a spoilsport sometimes.

They celebrate each victory at the Nott estate, displaying their findings with the excited energy Draco thinks archaeologists must feel on a successful dig. As they consume Theo’s glorious fish scale cocaine with a greedy fervour, they pore over precious jewels, the most gorgeous Muggle haute couture (that would make Naomi Campbell explode in her infamous way if found missing), priceless art, and even hefty bags of Galleons so sweetly left out in the open for their eager, sticky fingers. Draco doesn’t judge his friends for seeking out such frivolous items. He knows that in their own way, they’re hitting back at a community that has tried to ostracise or target them due to blood status, family history, or confidence.

Draco keeps amassing cursed artefacts and keeps sending them anonymously to the Department of Mysteries.

On their trip today, this time visiting the now vacant Flint London house, Theo does indeed acquire that random, ancient phonograph that is definitely worth some baby Pureblood’s whole trust fund; Millie acquires a rare copy of _Moste Potente Potions_ ; Pansy acquires vintage _Thierry Mugler_. Draco was right all along: there’s nothing that the Flint family owns that Draco wants or doesn’t already own (and in much better condition). He hasn’t found anything even remotely Dark, which he finds surprising. The Flint’s were listed on his father’s ledger, and Draco has cross checked it with the records of homes raided for Dark artefacts after the war: the Flint family was not listed.

He checks his watch before pulling out his snuff bullet to take a few pulls. He’s supposed to meet everyone in the foyer in ten minutes. He’s just exiting Marcus’s childhood bedroom when he catches a glimpse of a slightly ajar door. Figuring there’s still time to find something damning, he pushes it open and finds several pieces of furniture covered by white sheets. The only piece of furniture left uncovered is a massive oak office desk perched in front of floor-to-ceiling windows, moonlight pouring in and catching on the dust particles in the air.

Draco pulls out a small Muggle torch from his back pocket, turning it on as he explores the books lined along the wall. It appears that he’s in Edward Flint’s office. He makes his way over to the desk, using a gloved hand to open the drawers, torch in his mouth as he quickly shuffles through the parchments left in them. Finding nothing of interest, Draco shuts the drawers and places his hands on the back of his hips, glancing around the room. Perhaps the Flint’s were cleaner than they looked. It’s not entirely their fault that their son is a gambling degenerate. It’s unfortunate that his behaviour reflects back on them so poorly.

As Draco makes his way towards the door, ready to write the night off as a bust, he trips over the corner of a rug, unearthing the cold stone flooring beneath it. His heart leaps into his chest as he goes crashing into a white-sheet-covered armchair before stumbling onto his knees and hands on the rough, stone floor. He cries out, immediately lifting his left hand, the leather glove ripped and skin underneath smarting but otherwise unbroken. His kneecaps, unfortunately, feel as if they’ve been popped out of place. With a low groan he reaches out to the offending armchair to carefully hoist himself up. It’s then that his foot slips again and Draco realises that a piece of the stone flooring is loose.

Knowing the ground did more damage to him than the other way around, Draco kneels back onto the cold stone and notices that not only is this piece loose, it can come up. He pulls from his inner jacket pocket a small switchblade. After robbing several houses already, he’s realised that unlocking certain drawers or locks without magic simply required something sharp, so he’s taken to carrying around the knife that he can jimmy things open with. He also may or not have been influenced by Potter owning one. He slips the tip of the knife under the loose corner of the stone and with his other hand tries to shine the torch underneath it. He nearly drops both when a loud, creaking noise pierces the quiet of the room. The fireplace before Draco is suddenly sliding to the side, exposing a tiny cubbyhole.

Draco grins. “Bloody brilliant.”

Who needs a secret cubbyhole behind a _fireplace_ if they aren’t hiding something nefarious? He scrambles to his feet, eager to see what the Flint’s are hiding. He squats before the small, open space and closes his eyes. He’s not able to use magic to sense if there’s any curses or hexes on things, but he’s noticed the more he’s practiced protective magic, the more sensitive he’s been to Dark objects or magic. Like he’s noticed with many of these Pureblood households, no one ever assumes that they’re going to be exposed, and so they keep their crimes out in the open. And Edward Flint is no different.

Draco reaches the first small shelf and pulls out what Draco recognises are a stack of Muggle polaroids.

Upon seeing the first image, Draco immediately drops them.

“What the _fuck!_ ” he cries, recoiling from the small pile.

He covers his mouth, trying to quiet his suddenly heavy, panicked breathing. He removes his hand to instead run it through his hair, and takes several deep, even breaths.

He shines his torch onto the image again, somehow thinking it’ll change what he’s seeing, but it only makes it clearer: a man with reddish-brown hair, his throat slit wide open, blood pouring down his neck, his blue eyes wide, unblinking, staring forward. Draco’s hand shakes as he spreads the polaroids out, finding equally horrific images of unfamiliar men and women who have been brutally murdered. At the bottom of each polaroid is a series of numbers. They don’t make sense to Draco at all. He bites back bile when he comes across an image of a boy probably no older than 13.

Draco’s mind begins to race. Who are these people? Why were they murdered? WHO murdered them? Was it Edward Flint? Draco shakes his head, popping the torch under his chin as he gathers the images in both hands and slips them into a small rucksack that’s been prepared with protective magic before tonight’s raid. He checks the next small shelf and finds a battered, leather notebook with more series of numbers Draco doesn’t understand. He does notice that at the top of one column it’s listed: DMLE, and then the numbers and galleon amounts.

Bribery? Flint is keeping records of bribes within the DMLE.

He turns the page, and there’s a list of names, some scratched out. Draco touches his rucksack. Are these the people in those pictures? From the cubbyhole, Draco continues to pull out what he gathers to be documents showing blackmail, murder, and threats. There’s a whole list of donations that went to the Shacklebolt campaign. He finds another list of names he’s familiar with: Rowle, Fawley, Shafiq, Burke, Lestrange, Yaxley, Avery...Death Eaters and Death Eater sympathisers and then again a series of jumbled letters and numbers next to each name. Some of these Death Eaters and their family members are still on the run. Were these addresses to locate them?

Draco comes across more images, but these show prominent Wizengamot members in...delicate positions. Ahmed Shafiq has a naked woman in his lap at what appears to be a party. There are several images of an unknown man and the soon to be exiting Chief Warlock Declan Mormont III, whose position after retirement rests with the Wizengamot electing either Ahmed Shafiq or Thaddeus Davis. They’re having intimate dinners together in most of the pictures, but Draco comes across images of them kissing, and one of them both naked and about to engage in sex. This wouldn’t be so scandalous if Mormont wasn’t married to the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, Josephine Bleaux-Mormont, a Muggleborn. Draco finds another picture, this time of Marcus Flint talking to the Chief Prosecutor and an Auror Draco recognises, Auror Scott Andrews. Potter’s Auror partner. But there's still so much more, it'll take Draco days to go through it all. 

He’s stumbled upon something massive with these documents and images. Was Edward Flint trying to amass power by collecting scandalous information on his competitors? Who are all those murdered people? What do the numbers mean? Despite the very real fear he’s feeling, he can’t help but feel a bubble of nervous excitement. This is beyond anything he’s come across breaking into these Pureblood homes. Draco could potentially be uncovering the greatest scandal in Wizarding history.

He takes everything.

\-------

He doesn’t know what the _fuck_ he’s gotten himself into.

Those files are dangerous. And he stole them. He stole dangerous, damning files from an apparently dangerous man. He would rather steal a hundred poisonous, cursed artefacts in one go than have these files in his possession.

What the _fuck_ was he thinking? He hadn’t been thinking, he had been too fucking high _._ Too shocked by what he had found to just leave it there. He made the decision after leaving that office not to mention the documents to his friends, he would hate to involve them in this if it turned dangerous.

 _Could_ this become dangerous? It’s been a week and now back at work Draco feels like all eyes are on him. He feels like he’s being followed. He knows it’s impossible, no one knows he has those documents, locked under heavy wards in hole in the wall much like Edward Flint’s in Draco’s townhouse. Or what if he was wrong about potential curses or spells being on the cubbyhole? What if Edward knows Draco stole his dossier of horrors? Needless to say, that nervous excitement he had felt when he pocketed the incriminating documents is now long gone.

Draco’s day flies by, his stomach twisted up into knots, and he’s finally preparing to leave the Ministry for the evening when there’s a knock at his office door. He’s already flicked out the lighting and gathered his jacket and briefcase. He freezes, his heart thumping against his ribcage. Who would be knocking on his door at this hour? Was this _it?_

At the persistent knocking, Draco wrenches the door open to stare down whomever is on the other end. He’s surprised and relieved to find Potter standing there. They’ve been running into each other frequently over the last several weeks, ever since Potter dropped off that damned first cup of earl grey.

Potter’s brought him up a tea from the Ministry canteen again a few times since then and it’s always made to Draco’s liking, which he finds uncanny. They allow the teasing to flow easily between them, even discussing on more serious occasions, how their lives were right after the war. Potter must take note of how late Draco leaves the office because Draco takes note of Potter’s early arrivals, late exits, and now the present bags under his eyes. What’s Potter losing sleep over? But it does further confirm Draco’s inkling that Potter’s been keeping a close, keen eye on him and he honestly doesn’t mind it at all. He feels like they’re back at Hogwarts, following one another around, one-upping each other with insults and petty pranks, but without the threat and very real reality of death, violence, and blood between them.

“Er. I know you’re probably about to head out, so am I, but...I wanted to ask if you’d like to grab a drink with me?”

Draco leans against the door, expelling a gust of nervous air between slightly pursed lips as his disbelieving gaze trails over Potter. “Pull the other one?”

“I’m serious,” Potter says smoothly, one of those gorgeous little smiles tugging at his lips. Draco thumps his head against the door.

“You want to be seen out in public…with me?” he asks slowly.

Potter shrugs. “You say this as if people haven’t already noticed that we’ve been spending time together.”

Draco’s eyes widen slightly. “We’ve been spending time together?”

Potter rolls his eyes. “Do you wanna grab a drink or not?”

“Well, when you put it so nicely _,_ how can I say no?” Draco says, stepping into the corridor and shutting the door. “Just _one_ drink though; it’s Monday.” Potter gives him an appreciative once-over now that they’re both standing in a more illuminated area.

“If you say so...hey, nice shoes,” Potter says, pointing down at Draco’s Christian Louboutin Officialito woven tassel loafers.

Draco sniffs. “So, you’re not allergic to fashion after all. Good to know,” he retorts before smiling slowly. “And thank you. They’re Louboutin.”

“I love the little tassels,” Potter notes.

Draco lifts his right foot and gives it a little shake, the tassel shifting wildly on the top of the shoe, much to Potter’s amusement.

When they make it out onto a secluded area on Charing Cross to Apparate, Potter holds his hand out. “Side Along?”

Draco nods and takes Potter’s warm, calloused hand into his softer one. When they pop back into existence, Draco finds that they’re in a narrow, smelly alleyway.

Having noticed his disgruntled look, Potter smiles at him sheepishly. “Sorry, it’s the best spot to Apparate to.”

“Where exactly are we?”

“Soho. We just have to walk up Poland Street to get to the Kings Arms. Have you been?” Draco shakes his head. “It’s pretty great, you’ll see.”

Draco soon realises that the Kings Arms appear smaller on the outside than on the inside. When they step in, a burly, bearded man sits by the door and nods at Potter, not bothering to check any identification.

“Come here often?” Draco asks once they step inside. Potter shrugs, his lips turned up in a happy smile.

“Not really. But I reckon people just remember a friendly face. I usually party in Lambeth.”

“Right…” Draco drawls. He doesn’t know what Potter is talking about really, so instead he surveys his surroundings. For a Monday night, the place is incredibly busy. There’s a number of men gathered at the bar, loud and happy as they clink their pints together. The music is poppy and loud. Potter gestures towards a curved staircase near the back of the pub.

The first floor is much quieter, with a jumble of tables, mismatched chairs, and stools.

“What’s your poison?” Potter asks.

 _Cocaine_ , Draco’s brain stupidly supplies _._ “I’ll have whatever you’re having,” he says instead with a small lift of his shoulder.

Potter looks surprised. “Really? Even if it’s a lager?”

“Yes, Potter, _really_ ,” Draco drawls. “Merlin, what’s with the surprise?”

Harry shakes his head, the corner of his mouth twitching. “You just seem like a top-shelf sorta bloke.”

“Well, sorry to burst your little bubble,” he mutters, running a hand through his hair.

It’s one thing to endure Potter’s friendly, teasing demeanour in the confines of Draco’s office, but Potter’s a completely different animal outside of it. Draco doesn’t know how to act when facing a carefree, relaxed Harry Potter, especially in an environment that he’s very acquainted with and Draco isn’t.

“It’s a pleasant surprise,” Potter says. “Why don’t you find us a table while I grab us our drinks?”

“I’m actually going to find the loo first,” he responds, causing Potter to pause mid-step, eyeing him before nodding and walking off to the bar.

It’s risky—and stupid—when Draco admits it to himself, but when he reaches the loo and throws himself into an empty stall, all he can think about is his snuff bullet.

He sits on the toilet, propping his briefcase in his lap to pop it open before using his wand to unlock the hidden compartment where his bullet hides. He pulls it out and squeezes his eyes shut as he runs his tongue across the back of his teeth. It would be so easy to just take two pulls so his jumbled mass of nerves can be replaced with euphoria.

Draco sags slightly into himself. He’s been so adamant about keeping this recreational habit separate from work and family, until he found himself high almost all of last week to ease his anxiety. Barbara had entered his office with a cart of Wizarding Law texts from the 17th century floating behind her so Draco could provide one or two cases as precedential references for the Chief Prosecutor’s upcoming case. The research had been daunting, and the Muggle drug helped him carry his focus well into the night.

By the end of the work week Draco was disgusted with himself. He couldn’t believe he thought it was appropriate to get high at work—a hostile environment where people haze him, where his colleagues are probably waiting on the day he’ll snap and they’ll have a reason to berate Draco or, more likely, get him fired. He's been reckless in an environment that he no longer feels safe in since stealing that dossier. Draco bites into his lower lip and nods to himself. He can do this—he can do his job, keep himself alive long enough to figure out what to do with that dossier, and chat Potter up while having fun without needing this magical Muggle drug. Draco places the bullet back in its hidden compartment and shuts his briefcase.

After fixing his hair and washing his hands, he finds Potter at a table right up against the windows. Potter lifts a hand in a small wave as Draco approaches.

“Did you miss me?” Draco asks, depositing his briefcase and jacket in a spare chair before taking a seat across from Potter.

“Oh, yeah. I almost went into the loo to see if you'd fallen into the toilet.”

“Ha-ha,” Draco says, rolling his eyes. He notices the pint, the glass dappled with condensation, and the small shot glass of clear liquid. He pulls both the shot and pint towards him. “Is this muck any good?”

“Pulled from the Thames itself,” Potter says. “It’s just vodka and some local colour IPA.”

Draco laughs and tosses back his shot of vodka. He glances down at the pint. “I thought I said one drink, though?”

Potter chuckles. “Are you always this fussy?”

“Ah. We’re really going to do this, then?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“You know,” Draco says, his lips suddenly feeling very dry. He licks them and with a small thrill realises that Potter’s eyes follow the movement. “Get to know each other properly? Shall we play 21-questions?” he teases.

Potter leans back in his seat. “We’ll be here all night if I let you have your way. You’ve always been a nosy bugger.”

“Don’t pretend you’re not just as nosy about me,” Draco says, quirking an eyebrow.

Potter picks up his own chaser and tosses it back. “You know what they say, ‘know thy enemy.’”

“Is that what I am to you, Potter?”

Draco’s loath to acknowledge it, but a spike of panic rushes through him at Potter’s words. They can’t possibly be enemies anymore, right? Draco has true enemies to worry about, he has the documents to prove it. He searches Potter’s face for any hint of scrutiny or distaste, but all he finds is Potter’s wide-eyed amusement.

“No, of course not.”

“Good. I don’t agree to have drinks with people I hate,” Draco admits with a pleased lilt, taking a timid sip from the IPA. It’s not bad.

“Why’d you go into law?” Potter asks.

Draco snorts. “I thought it would be nice being on the right side of it for once.” He groans. “Do we have to talk about work? I don’t have the energy. Do you visit this pub often?”

Potter takes a sip from his beer. “Not as often as I’d like. It’s nice for drinks after work. Sometimes going to the Leaky or Diagon Alley in general is too much. Too busy.”

Draco rolls his eyes. “Right, because of all the fawning adoration.”

“You joke, but it does make, I don’t know, having some semblance of privacy near impossible.”

“Cry me a river, Potter. I’d rather suffer adulation than hatred.” Draco pauses. “Do you pick up men here?”

Potter smiles. “Sometimes. Where do you pick up men?”

“Bold of you to think I pick up men.”

Potter grimaces. “Shit, sorry. I didn’t mean to presume, I thought I heard that you dated that Shafiq bloke.”

Great, just when he thought he could go a whole day without thinking about his stupid ex-boyfriend, Draco thinks a bit aggressively.

“You’re fine,” he snaps. “But I don’t pick up anyone. They pick _me_ up. And sometimes they’re women.”

Potter laughs. “Okay, yeah great. Me too. I mean, I pick up women, too. I like both.”

“Congratulations,” Draco says, shifting in his seat to stare out the window as he sips his beer.

Soho is starting to come alive as people mill about the street and stand before the pub laughing and smoking their cigarettes. Maybe he’ll bring Pansy here the next time they want a relaxing anonymous night.

Draco’s attention is drawn away when Potter starts talking again. “I usually visit this place called the Royal Vauxhall Tavern in Lambeth. I go there a lot, it’s my favourite place, actually.”

“Why’d you ask me out for drinks tonight?” Draco asks abruptly, taking Potter off guard.

“Er, well.” Potter grips his pint. “You seem like you need a friend.”

Draco fixes Potter with a flat look. “Are you serious?”

Potter shrugs, a sheepish smile crossing his face. “Sort of? I mean, running into you on the lifts all that time ago was a surprise, and I don’t know, you just seem different, nicer? I think you can be a nice person, you’re surely not the same posh git from Hogwarts,” Potter says with a chuckle. “Sometimes when I bring you coffee and we sit for a chat it’s the highlight of my day,” Potter admits, his voice rushed. A deep blush stains his cheeks and Draco has a feeling Potter hadn’t meant to share that bit of information. Potter rubs the back of his neck nervously before clearing his throat. “I mean, I just want to get to know you. Properly.”

Draco has to control his breathing and thoughts at Potter’s little admission. It does something funny to his insides.

“Potter, I may not be, what you call, ‘the same posh git from Hogwarts’ but I assure you, I am not a nice person.”

“I reckon you’ll have to prove me wrong,” Potter teases.

Draco smirks. If only Boy Wonder knew the depth of it. “I don’t foresee that being a problem. So tell me, why’d you break up with Girl Weasley?” Draco asks, resting his elbows on the table.

“Oh. Ginny and I wanted different things,” Potter starts with a small frown. “She wanted to move to Wales permanently and I wanted to stay here and join the Aurors, so we decided to end things. It was for the best. I mean, we still love each other, but we now know that we weren’t made for each other.”

“Do you think there’s someone out there that’s been made for you?” Draco asks, only half-mockingly. Potter genuinely looks contemplative.

“I mean, yeah. It’s at least healthy to be optimistic about such things.”

Draco drains the rest of his beer. “Must be nice.”

“What?”

“Living inside of your rainbows and butterflies-filled mind, Potter, that’s what,” Draco drones. He pushes back from the table, needing a refill and to nip what will no doubt be a maudlin direction of the conversation on Draco’s part. At Potter’s pained expression, Draco sighs. “I’m just fucking with you. Next round on me.” He stands. “Same thing?”

Potter’s gaze is warm again and Draco finds that he likes knowing that it’s directed towards him...that it’s _because_ of him. “Yeah, sure.”

Draco finds that he really enjoys Potter’s company. He doesn’t mind when the conversation strays to the Weasleys or Potter’s adventures with his godson, or the repairs he plans to do on Grimmauld Place, that old monster of a townhouse Draco recalls from the Black side of the family. He follows along closely, and he likes it. He _likes_ Potter. He’s surprised that under Potter’s saviour-complex there’s a man with a decent sense of humour. And once they get started on some of the authority figures within the Ministry, Draco discovers there’s a whole wealth of feistiness lurking under that Golden Boy exterior. His distaste for the Ministry honestly rivals Draco’s own.

“You really have a problem with authority,” Draco comments, now finishing off his third pint.

“I just don’t believe in putting my entire faith and trust into any set system, especially one as oppressive as the Ministry. But you didn't hear me say that.”

“You’re practically an anarchist. How have you not burned the Ministry down?”

“Oh,” Potter starts, his tone dangerous. “There have been moments.”

Draco perks up and leans forward. He remembers what Tracey said about Potter not being what everyone in the Ministry believed him to be. Had she encountered his rebellious streak while working as his witness or during the Corps?

“Really _?_ Do tell,” he says excitedly.

Potter smirks. “I’ll save it for the next time we do this.”

“You think there’ll be a next time, eh?”

“Yeah, I do.”

“Well, aren’t you a smug bastard?”

“Tell me I’m wrong.”

“You’re wrong,” Draco says with a dramatic, chastising shake of his head.

Potter laughs.

“Where do you live?” Potter asks suddenly.

“Why do you want to know?”

“So I can either walk you home or get you a taxi. I’d say we’ve both had a bit too much to Apparate.”

Draco eyes Potter carefully. In his tipsy state he can look without feeling embarrassed that he finds Potter so bloody attractive. “I live on Buckingham Gate.”

“Jesus fucking Christ, are you kidding?”

“One thing I do not joke about, Potter, is real estate.” The Malfoy London property is obscenely extravagant and located just across Buckingham Palace. Draco can see why Potter’s in awe, his neighbour is technically the Queen. Draco waves his hand. “It’s been in the family for _pfft_ , an aeon…but Mother spends most of her time at Adanya’s property in Marylebone. We hardly ever visit Malfoy Manor.”

“Is it just you there or—”

“It’s just me,” Draco says quickly, even though his mind strays to his new…captive? Pet? To Sprinkles.

“Well, I’d like to walk you home.”

 _Ah_ , Draco thinks. _What the hell, why not?_ “Okay.”

They take a scenic route, as in for Draco, through the shopping district. He points out his favourite spots—the small boutiques, the Chanel and Louis Vuitton store, the lovely restaurants and delis he’s visited with Pansy. They walk through Green Park, their voices low as they discuss nothing and everything, their steps in sync as their shoulders bump together. When they reach the open space that is the Victoria Memorial and Buckingham Palace, Draco’s pace slows down. They’ve made it here too quickly.

He doesn’t want the night to end just yet.

Potter takes him all the way to the front entrance of the 19th century, seven-floor townhouse. The black door with the Malfoy crest as its knocker glimmers when it acknowledges Draco’s presence.

“Here we are,” Draco says, his hand tightening nervously around the handle of his briefcase.

“Wow, it’s beautiful,” Potter says, looking up.

The all-white façade and numerous windows are quite lovely. There’s only one light left on, on the first floor where Draco has set up a sort of doggy-friendly room for Sprinkles, which reminds him, he’ll have to Disillusion her to take her out for a short walk. The room may have amenities for her to do her business, but he knows how important fresh air is for animals.

“I’d like to do this again,” Potter says warmly, stepping into Draco’s personal space.

Draco sways a bit, feeling slightly dizzy as he’s caught in the calming, friendly energy that seems to radiate off of Potter.

“I’d like that. Very much.”

Potter’s eyes search Draco’s face with such an intensity that Draco’s knees weaken. “May I kiss you?”

“Oh,” Draco says softly. “Because you think I might be nice?”

Potter grins. “Well, yeah.”

“Then, yes. Please.”

A surreal feeling overcomes him as Potter’s arms wrap around Draco’s waist, pulling him in as their lips gently touch. Draco’s eyes flutter shut, and he finds that Potter’s kiss is like oxygen. He breathes it in.

Like this entire night, their kiss is over much too soon. Draco’s eyes fly open just as Potter pulls away, his cheeks flushed and green eyes iridescent in the low lights.

“Well…thank you,” Potter says softly, a dazed smile on his face.

A gentle laugh bubbles up Draco’s throat. “Thank _you_.”

Potter lifts a hand to Draco’s cheek. He slides his thumb across it before dropping it and taking a step back. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then. Goodnight, Draco,” Potter says quietly before turning away.

“Goodnight, Harry,” he whispers after him as he watches the other man walk down the street to disappear around the corner.


	6. Chapter 6

_So goodbye yellow brick road_

_Where the dogs of society howl_

_You can't plant me in your penthouse_

_I'm going back to my plough_

_Back to the howling old owl in the woods_

_Hunting the horny-back toad_

_Oh, I've finally decided my future lies_

_Beyond the yellow brick road_

**_Goodbye Yellow Brick Road_ /Elton John**

When Draco approaches the gates of the Shafiq’s garden, he places his Dior sunglasses on top of his head. Bitty is sitting at the entrance looking radiant in a thin, white floral-lace maxi dress, her long brown hair pulled into an elaborate updo. She has an open scroll of parchment placed on the small table in front of her, a quill twirling between her fingers, the nails painted white. She looks up at Draco with surprise and then disappointment as he approaches her.

“Well, I’m out ten Galleons! There’s a wager going on over whether or not you’d show your face. I thought you’d stay away.”

So, it’s going to be _that_ kind of afternoon with her. Draco sneers. “At least I’m on the list and not working the door,” he says coldly.

Bitty giggles. “I’m volunteering for the Society for Distressed Witches!” Bitty exclaims before leaning in closer. “I’ve got my eye on an opening on their Board,” she whispers conspiratorially.

“Of course you do.”

“And anyway, _mia dolce metà,_ I still need to ensure your name is on the list.” Bitty uses the quill’s feathery tip to scan the long list. She makes an _“_ a-ha!” when she reaches Draco’s name. “Narcissa and Dany aren’t here yet. Where's your plus-one?”

“Don’t have one.”

Bitty tsks. “Aren’t you tired of being alone, Draco? What if I can change that for you?” Bitty asks, her voice low and playful.

“I’m not interested in being set up with one of your insipid, gold-digging girlfriends,” Draco says, growing annoyed with the conversation. “Is that all? I’d like to get to the event at some point today.”

The lids of her eyes lower and a serious look suddenly takes over her playful one. “Who said anything about my girlfriends? Why would I want to share what’s ours with them _?_ ”

Draco purses his lips, a rush of annoyance making his mind race unpleasantly. He’s always been aware of Bitty’s possessiveness, her insolence, and now her voyeuristic, candualistic behaviour. Even though she claims to love Blaise, she’s drawn to Draco, still flirts with him excessively, and speaks to him like they’re still intimately linked. And nowadays Blaise seems to be on the same page as Bitty with the bizarre flirting. Draco’s had enough with being played with.

“I don’t want to play these games with you, Bitty. Just cross my name off and let me go,” Draco mutters, shoving his hands into the pockets of his fitted, white linen trousers.

“We’re simply not ready to let you go just yet, Draco Malfoy, but for now I’ll let you pass believing this isn’t real on both sides,” Bitty says gravely.

What the _fuck_ is she even talking about _?_ Draco wonders, putting his sunglasses back on, his sneer still firmly in place as he walks away from Bitty.

\---

Draco must say, the lineup this year is quite impressive.

The Shafiq’s have been able to gather the Harpies’ Captain, Gwenog Jones, the amazing Viktor Krum, Pudd United’s Oliver Wood, and even Chudley Cannons’s Joey Jenkins, as well as other well-known players to participate in the Annual Quidditch match. The group of professionals play against each other – Team Purple and Team Gold (to honour the Shafiq family colours), with all proceeds raised going to the Society for Distressed Witches. Draco has already promised five thousand Galleons for Team Purple, Viktor Krum’s team.

He really wants to hate being at this event, especially after his little encounter with Bitty, but Draco quickly seeks out Pansy, and the more he mingles, drinks, and eats, the more excited he becomes for the Quidditch match. He doesn’t even flinch when Farida’s dark eyes land on him as he scours the buffet table with Pansy. He composes himself well enough when Edward Flint approaches him to enquire about his work and ask after his mother, whom Draco points out right away.

He’s relieved when Flint senior claps him on the shoulder and thanks him. It also helps that his nifty snuff bullet is placed carefully in his back pocket. Draco doesn’t think he’ll use it, but knowing it’s there in case his natural good mood plateaus keeps him afloat.

Draco takes a moment to admire the beautiful grounds, his thoughts straying to the wealth and power of this family:

**The Shafiq Family**

The Shafiq’s are a powerful Pureblood family from the Gujarati Legacy with roots in the Pakistani province of Sindh. They show their pride in the décor and their style of clothing during major events only, it seems. The Shafiq property is a 42-acre, beautifully crafted and manicured land with gardens, a tennis court, ornamental pond and swimming pool. There’s space for their horses and a polo field that they enlarge and use every year for the charity Quidditch match. Farida has been the Chairwoman for the Society for Distressed Witches for over a decade, and for the last year several years she’s hosted a star-studded Quidditch match to raise money for her Society.

Farida Khan Shafiq is, simply put, a formidable woman. She’s tall, thin, and always speaks in soft, urgent tones. With her long inky black hair down her back, dark eyes framed by thick, dark lashes and ageless façade, Draco would call her beautiful if she didn’t look as if she was smelling something foul every time she glanced at him.

She sorted Slytherin, was top of her class, and was Head Girl at Hogwarts. She’s a few years older than Draco’s mother, but Narcissa recalls stories of Farida’s talent in Potions, especially her affinity for Dark potion-making. She would marry Ahmed Shafiq right after Hogwarts as part of an arranged marriage.

Ahmed completed his education at Durmstrang, and during the early years of his marriage, was recognised as a rising political figure within the Ministry and soon earned a spot on the Wizengamot. To his colleagues, he was the obvious choice for Chief Warlock. The Shafiq’s have four children—Saeed, the eldest and only boy, Aisha, Zarah, and Tehmineh— Tina for short.

Draco watches with amusement as Pansy samples each sweet displayed on the buffet table like a modern-day Marie Antoinette. It’s an impressive spread according to Pansy, who is the type of person to carry a small box of Jean-Paul Hévin assorted macarons in her Chanel. He’s only distracted from her meticulous browsing when he catches sight of Saeed across the garden chatting with his new boyfriend, a close friend of the family apparently, as the pair were thrown together by Farida herself.

“Once men have tasted caviar, it baffles me how they settle for catfish,” Pansy says, her gaze also on Saeed’s new boyfriend.

Draco wishes he could hug her right now, but he doesn’t want to wrinkle her delicate silk frock.

Saeed turns towards Draco, his brows furrowing as their gazes meet. Draco sighs.

“I may have to talk to him.”

“I thought you vetoed hard labour this weekend,” Pansy says cheekily.

“That was the plan, but I am quite literally in the middle of a snake’s den.”

Pansy picks up a treat to examine it. “Then you should feel right at home,” she says, delicately biting into the tiny tart, a soft moan escaping her as it oozes red jam. “You don’t have to go talk to him. Just ignore him and help me get started on these lovely treats.”

Draco holds his breath as Saeed moves through the crowd, but instead of making his way towards Draco, he approaches his sister Aisha.

“I'll talk to him, just not right now,” Draco says, taking his own pick from the buffet. He’s startled from biting into his smoked salmon blini when Pansy begins to choke on a blueberry and white chocolate strawberry truffle.

“Fucking hell, are you all right?” he asks, a hand pressing into the small of her back. She shakes her head, coughing, waving his concern off.

She clears her throat. “Uhm, Draco, don’t—don’t look.”

“What?” he asks, popping the canape into his mouth.

“Harry Potter has just arrived and I’m quite sure you’ll have conniptions over his date.”

“You almost choked to death because of Har—Potter? _”_

“Draco…it’s João Coelho. He’s here with _João Coelho!”_

Draco gasps, his eyes growing wide as he spins on his heel to do exactly what Pansy said not to. He removes his sunglasses and pockets them, his gaze sharp. As he lives and breathes, João Coelho, the Captain of the Peruvian Quidditch team, the Tarapoto Tree-Skimmers, is standing next to Harry with a huge grin across his handsome face as the paparazzi scramble to photograph them.

“Merlin, he’s—” Draco starts, at a loss for words.

“The most talked about Quidditch Captain in the world right now? His stats alone—”

“Fuck his stats, Pansy,” Draco whispers fiercely. “The man is drop dead gorgeous.”

Pansy chuckles. “He is that indeed. I saw him in Paris last month boutique-shopping in the Golden Triangle. So sexy. So powerful. And such amazing taste in fashion.”

Draco rarely reacts so strongly to people he finds attractive—just look at him, he’s gorgeous—and ninety-nine percent of the time if he’s interested in someone sexually, it only takes a glance from him for them to fall into bed together. But João Coelho is not only brilliant on a broom and the youngest captain of a successful team, he’s everything Draco looks for in a man aesthetically. Tall, trim but muscular, smooth skin, messy hair, a jawline for days.

But he’s with _Harry_.

Jealousy suffuses him, and for reasons Draco’s ashamed to feel so strongly.

“Potter! How did _Potter_ get Coelho to even glance his way?”

Pansy scoffs. “Are you really going to pretend with me, Draco?”

Draco whirls on his heel to look at her. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Pansy giggles, her usual impassive expression giving way to a warm smile. She lifts a hand to brush his fringe back from his forehead. “You hapless, lovesick fool.”

“I don’t think I can have the same conversation one more time,” Draco says exasperatedly, now connecting the dots behind Pansy’s comment.

It’s his fault, mostly. He tells Pansy everything and made the mistake of telling her about his impromptu drink…date…thing with Harry, and since then her teasing has been merciless. As lovely as that night was and their subsequent interactions have been, Draco doesn’t want to come on too strong. It’s not like he’s expecting anything from Harry.

“Whatever you have to tell yourself to sleep better at night, my darling boy.”

Draco glares at her. “Merlin, you are so annoying. Go back to your chocolate truffles,” he says, turning away from the buffet table to find a quiet corner to disappear off to. He’s stopped short, however, because Potter and Coelho are now coming towards him.

“Draco! I’m so happy to see you here!” Harry calls out when he’s in front of them.

“My God, Potter, are you wearing polyester to a Social event? What’s wrong with you?” Draco says in lieu of a proper greeting.

“What, you don’t like it?” Potter says, peering down at his light green polo shirt in bemusement, a small smile on his face as he looks back up at Draco.

Secretly, Draco feels a spark of warmth in the face of Harry’s fashion faux pas. He thinks it’s kind of amazing that Harry doesn’t know, or doesn’t give a fuck, about what these Purebloods think of him.

“Fashion is the most powerful art there is. It's movement, design and architecture all in one. It shows the world who we are and who we'd like to be. Just like your t-shirt shows the world you'd like to be a used broom salesman," Draco drawls. He hates that Potter is making him so nervous that he’s turning up his arseholeness a notch or two.

Harry chuckles, amusement flashing across his face. “Merlin, you’re in a mood today. I didn’t think you were coming.”

“Why? Are you part of that betting pool, as well?” Draco asks, averting his gaze to the buffet table. He picks up a chocolate-covered strawberry.

He doesn’t miss Harry’s eyebrows shooting up. “Of course I’m not, I would never do that to you. I hate that you even know about that, but really, I’m so glad you showed up.”

Pansy coughs behind Draco, her hand grazing his elbow. Draco shifts his weight to his other foot, the nervous ball in his stomach growing as he glances at Pansy, a grin on her face. He doesn’t know what she’s got up her sleeve.

“Yes, well. Good.” He sticks his hand out to Coelho. “Draco Malfoy,” he announces. “And my date, Pansy Parkinson.”

Their greetings are pleasant, fortunately. Draco’s pleased to find that Coelho’s even more handsome up close.

“Please, call me João. Harry here convinced me to attend at the last minute. Anything for charity, right?” João says, his arm coming up to wrap around Harry’s shoulders.

 _Charity my arse,_ Draco thinks.

“Are you on the Gold or Purple team?” Pansy asks.

“I’m spearheading the Gold Team. Looks like I’ve got my work cut out for me against Krum.”

“I’m sure you’ll be fantastic,” Pansy purrs. “Your statistics from your last game were just phenomenal—”

Draco drowns them out. He watches Harry as Harry watches João and something twists in his stomach. It’s an old familiar twinge—fear and all its friends. He finds that he doesn’t want Harry to give up on him just yet. Draco knows how ridiculous that sounds, they’ve only shared some tea breaks and a single kiss together, but seeing Harry next to this other man stirs something deep and painful in him and he feels pathetic. Draco will never be a good person, but around Harry, he feels like he has the potential to at least be an _okay_ person.

Pansy is giggling, flicking her short locks from her face in a flirtatious manner when Draco finally tunes back in. He chuckles along with her, not knowing what they’re talking about, and inhales hard when Harry turns to smile tightly at him.

“He can’t wait to see you on the broom, trust me! Like I said, he’s always had a bit of a crush on you,” Pansy says.

“Is that right?” João asks, his gaze appraising as he looks Draco up and down. “I can’t wait to get on my broom then, if only to see you direct a smile like that at me.”

Draco can feel the blood rush to his cheeks. “What?”

“Don’t be silly, darling. There’s no need to hide how big of a fan you are of João’s.”

Draco inwardly sighs. Leave it to Pansy to stir the cauldron in such a silly way. He doesn’t need to see if Harry will react to Draco finding João attractive, he can feel the discomfort radiating off the other man.

“I’m sorry, I’m off to the loo,” he says.

Pansy twitches, but her laugh is still coy, the one she reserves for her Society gal-pals. Draco decides to take his leave _now_ before she says anything scolding.

As Draco makes his way through the beautiful topiary garden, he feels the hair on the back of his neck stand erect. There are several pairs of eyes on him as well as hushed whispers that trails behind him. He fixes a filthy sneer on his face—he shouldn’t be surprised that people are talking bosh about him here—he brazenly stepped into this mess knowing full well what people think about him.

_“What a ridiculous man, coming to this event unwelcomed!”_

_“Can you believe he’d show his face after Farida blacklisted him?”_

_“Stupid boy!’_

_“I put a hundred Galleons down that he’d show! Ha! What a_ pathetic _arse.”_

None of the comments penetrate his skin. Most of what they’re saying he already thinks about himself already.

When Draco enters the nearest outbuilding, he comes face-to-face with Saeed and his boyfriend. His boyfriend is shorter than them both, with light brown hair and watery blue eyes. Draco inwardly scoffs. He’s a plain Jane, if Draco’s ever seen one.

“Hey,” Saeed greets him. “How nice of you to have come.”

“Yes, right,” Draco says. He stands a bit straighter and extends his hand to Saeed’s boyfriend, manners warring with his discomfort. “Draco Malfoy.”

“I know who you are, Malfoy,” Saeed’s boyfriend says slowly, a look of disdain on his face, ignoring Draco’s hand.

Draco drops his extended hand to his side.

“Interesting. I know nothing about you,” Draco says blithely.

Saeed clears his throat. “Babe, can you please give us a few minutes?”

The simple term of endearment causes Draco to wince. How many times has he heard it directed towards himself? Countless.

Saeed’s boyfriend glares at Draco. “Whatever, if that’s what you want,” he murmurs quietly, leaning in to press his thin lips to Saeed’s cheek. “I’ll be with your mother,” he says before leaving them.

Now standing before Saeed alone Draco feels very sad. How is it possible to have been so close, so intimate with someone and now all of a sudden feel a million miles apart from them? It isn’t natural. Draco just wants to reach across this impossible span of space between them and touch Saeed, reminding him of all the _good_ that used to exist between them. It’s desperate and painful and Draco doesn’t know what to do but stand there, his arms dangling loosely at his sides. He doesn’t know this man before him anymore.

Before he can think twice, the words just come tumbling out. “I’m sorry. I know it’s weird, I mean, I wouldn’t have shown up here – I, I thought about not coming a lot but in the end, I realised that not showing would just fuel the rumours,” Draco rambles, his entire body burning with humiliation.

Saeed sighs, folding his arms against his wide chest. “You’re fine. My mother may have protested your name remaining on the list, but I talked her down. Merlin forbids if she offends Narcissa and Dany. The fall out—”

“—would be immense,” Draco finishes, with a miserable smile.

It was something they would tease each other about, listing all the negative bollocks that would follow if they broke up. They'd vowed to never let things get so bad that they’d experience such a fall-out to bring about drama, promising one another that they were ‘in this for the long haul.’

“You look good,” Saeed says, his face softening.

“It’s this new skincare routine I’m trying. It’s called ‘barely living,’” he deadpans, a weak laugh escaping him despite Saeed’s stricken expression.

Draco realises then that his dramatic self-deprecating humour isn’t as funny if he’s the only one laughing.

“I’m sorry, for all of it,” Saeed murmurs.

“So you say.”

“I mean it. I knew we were heading somewhere bad, Draco, but I didn’t want it to end where and how it did.”

Draco shakes his head, his arms folding against his chest. “What? So you regularly become this wonderful, amazing person for people you’re in relationships with before you turn on them?”

“I didn’t turn on you, Draco.”

“Then what do you call what you did to me?”

“We wanted different things,” Saeed says, his expression sad.

“Your _mother_ wanted different things. She wanted you with someone from her Pureblood circle, not a sordid reformed ex-Death Eater with a Father in Azkaban for nearly the rest of his natural life. I wasn’t up to par with her plan for you behind the scenes of her Social agenda. Merlin, if you were going to abide by all her wants, you should have just agreed to the arranged marriage she wanted for you before we got together.”

“This is my family, Draco. Even though I may disagree on some things Mother advocates, our goals still align,” Saeed says, his voice hard. “Patrick is a Selwyn. He knows the importance of being reformed. And you’re right, he doesn’t carry the history you do.”

Draco curls into himself. It’s as if Saeed has punched him in the stomach. He knew the truth, but it still hurts to hear it.

“Okay,” he says.

Saeed looks contrite, his handsome features regretful and forlorn. “Draco,” he starts, his voice thin. “I don’t want to hurt you. I never want to hurt you, but this is our reality.”

“Okay,” Draco mutters again.

“I’m announcing my engagement to Patrick next week.”

There’s a moment of silence between them before Draco begins to laugh.

He laughs, and laughs, and laughs. It’s wild and uncontrollable, bubbling up his throat alongside a repugnant, acidic taste. Saeed looks around uncomfortably before he places a hand on the small of Draco’s back, gently leading him away from the entrance of the outbuilding. Draco lets him, following him as he struggles to recall how to place one foot before the other.

“You just met him. I’ve had hair gel longer. It’s illogical,” Draco says, a hysterical edge to his voice.

“Love is illogical.”

Draco freezes, his face twisting into a scowl. “Don’t I know.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Why apologise? You, Farida, and Patrick are in love,” Draco hisses.

Saeed has the audacity to look amused. “You’re not just hurt...you’re _jealous_. Draco,” Saeed says, looking at Draco as if he’s discovered a new kind of creature. “I had no idea you were capable of it, you’re always so indifferent to the things happening around you.”

“Fuck you,” Draco says, pulling away from his touch. “What a hell of a way to tell me you never knew me.”

“Come on, Draco. I’ll always love you. It was hard to move on, but I—we— _had_ to. I’m sorry _._ This is the best for us. For everyone _._ ”

Draco feels sick. He doesn’t know how to confront such an outrageous lie. All his wit and snarky retorts have bled away. He feels so cold. They used to tumble in the sheets together every single time they realised just how much they wanted the same things.

“Right. Well. Good for you—for you and Patrick and Farida. I’m so happy you finally feel safe in your little Pureblood circle.”

Draco walks away but Saeed stops him by stepping forward, his hand reaching out to grasp Draco’s upper arm.

“You were a brilliant boyfriend. You’re going to make someone really happy one of these days.”

Draco draws in a breath. If there’s one thing he wishes he’d never have to hear from his ex-boyfriend, it’s that. He pushes down his hurt as he pulls away from Saeed’s grasp.

“Thanks, Saeed. I wish you nothing but joy and prosperity,” he mutters, stepping around him and heading towards the loo.

Draco locks himself in the loo. His hands immediately scrub at his face, an inward cry twisting itself up his throat. He wants to scream loudly. His teeth clench as his fingers find purchase in his hair. He’s always wanted closure from Saeed but now that he’s had a semblance of it, he wishes it never happened. It makes his skin crawl. It validates all his smarting concerns that he’ll never deserve a mature relationship because of his stupid fucking past.

He stumbles towards the sink, feeling the ubiquitous dark curl of self-pity and emptiness fill his chest, thick and grimy. It presses up his throat. He clings to the rim of the sink and gags. What is he _doing_ with his life? He’s miserable. Fucking _miserable_...

There’s three heavy knocks on the door. Draco closes his eyes, willing the person on the other side to find another fucking loo _right now_. When the knocks do not let up, Draco becomes cross.

“Fuck off! There’s someone in here!” he calls out.

“Draco,” Harry’s voice calls from the other side. “Let me in.”

Draco peels himself away from the sink to yank the door open. Harry looks concerned standing there in his ghastly green polyester polo and fitted black trousers. Draco almost wants to laugh at how ridiculous he looks at such an event, but instead he steps back and lets Harry into the small loo, watching as the other man shuts the door behind him.

“I saw you come in here,” Harry says.

Draco rests his hip against the rim of the sink, arms crossed. “What do you want?”

“Are you okay?”

“Why do you care?” Draco snaps. “You’re doing just fine with your famous date. I’m doing fine without avoiding mine. What are you worried about me for?”

Harry steps forward, his tone compassionate. “Draco, I’m so sorry. You’re obviously upset.”

“Yes, yes, Potter. Why don’t you put on your running trainers and get to the fucking point?” Draco snaps.

Harry flinches. “Draco. Are you cross with me? Is that also upsetting you? Hear me out, I was invited along with Hermione and Ron by Viktor, to be honest. They couldn’t come because they’re on holiday, so I decided to come. João is a friend I met through Ron. Did you know Ron works for the Department of Magical Games and Sports?”

“I don’t care,” Draco hisses. “You didn’t even ask if I’d be here. I saw you less than a week ago! Why?”

Draco knows how petulant he sounds, but can’t stop the curl of insecurity that overcomes him. He hates it.

Harry runs a hand through his wild locks. “I don’t know? I didn’t want to upset you.”

“What does that _mean?_ Why would it upset me?” Draco presses.

He knows deep down in the pit of his tangled feelings that he’s being ridiculous, but the monstrous part of him wants to drag Harry down to his miserable level. He wants to ruin Harry’s rainbows and butterflies-filled day with nothing but Draco’s downpour of misery. Harry is too good _,_ too fucking kind, and Draco can’t believe it. He can’t believe someone is _that_ good, not when he knows that Harry’s dangerous, mysterious, and has probably seen so much violence and hate in his young life, just like Draco. How can Harry not be broken, too?

“Breakups are hard. They’re private and not always symptomatic of what two people shared. I’m sorry you weren’t afforded privacy in yours, that was unfair. I swear I didn’t think you’d want to surround yourself with the very people causing you discomfort, so I didn’t ask. I didn’t want to bring up negative shit.”

“Fucking _saviour_ ,” Draco hisses, stepping forward into Harry’s space. A part of him begs to reel his anger in, knowing Harry means well, but Draco can’t stop himself. “You can’t even help yourself.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You _kissed_ me,” Draco says weakly, through numb lips.

“I did,” Harry whispers. “I’d do it again, too.”

“Why?”

“Because I feel like it, Draco. What the hell is going on with you?” Harry asks, stepping forward.

Draco lifts his arms, his hands up.

“No,” Draco says, shaking his head. “Just stay right there.”

“Draco,” Harry starts softly. “I’m about to go on a mission for the next couple weeks and I want you to know, I’ve wanted you to know for a while now that I—I like you. A lot.”

Draco hugs himself around his middle. “Fuck your feelings, Potter. Fuck your mission. I don’t believe a word you say, do you know that? How fucking bizarre it is that you have feelings for _me_ of all people? How could you bring some superstar to an event as your date while wearing fucking polyester and say you like me at the same time? How do you think that’s somehow okay?” Draco asks hysterically.

“Draco,” Harry starts, looking perplexed. “I promise I’m not trying to lead you on or hurt you. I _do_ like you, and had I known you were coming I would have asked to come with you.”

“I don’t care. Don’t you understand that? If you like me, that’s great, but none of this shit is going to matter at the end of the day because I can’t bloody trust you!” Draco nearly shouts, heated.

It’s true—Harry can like him now, but Draco knows it won’t last. Some part of him knows Harry’s attraction to him is just...bizarre, no matter how good it feels. It’s for the best if Harry stays away before things become too complicated.

“Just stay away from me,” he says, now pushing past Harry to yank the door open.

He wants to put as much distance between them as possible.

“You’re not even _trying!_ ” Harry shouts after him, and to Draco’s mortification, following him. “Why is it so hard for you to find reasons to _love yourself_ , Draco? Maybe if you did, you wouldn’t have to act like a twat to keep yourself from being happy, or push people away! You wouldn’t have to feel so bloody sorry for yourself!” Harry shouts at Draco’s back.

Draco slowly turns on his heel, struck with the sense of how unfair and humiliating this all is. It doesn’t just hurt that Harry has peeled back the most tender parts of Draco’s psyche. It’s that he did it so blatantly in front of people Draco can’t fucking stand. Why can’t Harry just leave off? Why did he need to show his hot-headedness now? In front of all these Pureblood snakes? His stomach lurches as he tries to channel every single reprehensible thought he’s ever had about Harry Potter into one single glare.

“Fuck you, you disgusting, idiotic worm. Never find yourself alone in my presence ever again, Potter. I’ll be sure to do what the Dark Lord couldn’t with you.”

He doesn’t even care that he’s threatening Harry in an open space. He barrels through the gardens, regardless of the sea of shocked expressions and narrowed eyes on him. His gaze catches on Farida as she stands around her close-knit circle of Social ladies.

“Can you believe him? Threatening Harry Potter? What will Page Six say?” He hears Farida say.

_“For such a horrible person, they report on him too much, if you ask me. Think of the children who happen across those articles!” another woman says._

_“He’s just like his father—rotten to the core.”_

**\---**

“Don’t be such a cunt!” Pansy cries, hauling a throw pillow at him.

Draco smacks it down, his face furious. “You’re being ridiculous!”

“He called you a twat!” Pansy shouts back, pointing to the news article between them.

The only thing thicker than blood is the ink on _Wizard’s Socialite Rank’s_ _Page Six_. The publication didn’t hesitate in running a full spread on Draco’s conversation with his ex-boyfriend and his subsequent row with Potter, the very next day after the Quidditch match. There was hardly any coverage on the Gold Team winning. Discussion on Harry calling him a twat took up a full page as the author and their “think tank” pondered over cause and causality (as if some sort of scientific study) behind the name-calling and their current connection to one another. There was speculation circulating about whether or not Draco was truly reformed because of his threats about harming Harry.

What a mess.

“I _am_ a twat!” Draco cries, leaning forward to pluck the pillow from the floor and clutch it to his chest. “He was right to be upset. I absolutely projected my anger with Saeed onto him.”

“Mate, I’m usually neither here nor there about such things,” Theo says, sitting back in a heavily floral, embroidered armchair, his head tilted back and his face scarily impassive. “But it sounds like he disrespected you.”

“Yes, Draco! Potter disrespected you. Why not pay him a little visit?” Pansy urges. “We do that with everyone else, why not Potter?”

Draco bites his lower lip. Harry doesn’t fit their criteria _._ This whole ordeal is starting to get out of hand and he regrets ever saying anything to Pansy about his encounter with Harry.

“After the war, I lost everything _,_ ” Theo starts, his voice cold.

Draco has never heard Theo speak about the war or its aftermath in such a tone, and it makes him want to listen carefully. It’s been so long since Draco’s even seen Theo look this miserable. It’s jarring to see his mate outside of his usual cool, indifferent, post-war nature.

“I’m not blaming Potter,” Theo starts. “Merlin knows all of that rubbish was bound to change in the light’s favour and Father wasn’t smart enough to follow the tides, but honestly, Draco. You make things all about yourself, why not let us have some say? Why not let us have some closure?”

Draco tears his eyes from Theo’s hard face to rest on Millie sitting on the floor quietly observing this whole exchange. She’s resting her head against Theo’s knee, her thick curls covering her face, preventing Draco from seeing her expression.

“Millie?” Draco asks, his voice catching. “You’re usually our voice of reason. What do you think?”

Millie sits up then, her plump lips tugging into a sympathetic smile as she pushes her thick hair back from her face. Her cheeks are rosy, no doubt from the number of cocktails she’s consumed tonight.

“Draco, my darling, I don’t think it’s up to you any more. This crazy lot will visit Potter’s regardless of what you think.”

Draco becomes rigid in Theo’s armchair. There’s a flopping sensation in the pit of his stomach as he stares out into the bored, unbothered eyes of his friends. Pansy continues to lounge on the chaise, breaking her gaze from his to fix instead on the ceiling. Theo eases his way onto the floor in front of his infamous round, glass coffee table, sectioning off long thin lines of cocaine as Millie moves to rest her head in his lap.

“He’ll be home,” Draco says.

“You told us he’s away on a mission,” Theo counters.

“He’s _Harry fucking Potter_ ,” Draco hisses.

“So what? Like he’s anything special!” Pansy huffs.

Draco closes his eyes, regret spurning through him. He wants to burst out: fuck all of this noise! But instead he curls into himself. “We can’t do this.”

Theo sniffs. “We can and we will _._ We all saw him at the Shafiq’s, Draco. Potter is officially a part of the game. He put down ten thousand Galleons for the Gold Team. He might not be a Pureblood but his Galleons speaks volumes in this community.”

“Don’t be uncouth. It was for charity,” Draco says with a dismissive wave of his hand.

“No, Draco. I think Potter has done greater harm to us than your precious mummy Shafiq,” Theo responds coolly, snorting a line laid out before him with a tightly rolled up piece of parchment. “I think it’s time for Potter to pay it forward, Draco baby.”

Draco whips his head towards Pansy. He jabs a trembling finger in her direction.

“You did this!” he hisses at Pansy, trying to keep his voice steady.

Her brows furrow, lips pursing.

“You and your endless fucking taunting and goading! Now they think this is somehow a good idea. _Fuck_ , Pansy,” he whispers before turning his gaze back to Theo and Millie. “Why does it have to be Potter? Surely there are other people in the Ministry we can go after? Ahmed Shafiq or, or maybe someone new in the Auror Department—” Draco starts desperately, thinking of Andrews.

“Yeah, _Potter—_ ” Theo deadpans.

“Draco,” Millie interrupts, her tone apologetic. “We started this as a team and you were the de facto leader in the beginning, but I think it’s time to let Theo say his bit.”

Draco’s nostrils flare. “You’re saying you’ll do this without me?”

Theo shrugs. “You’ve told us where he lives already. And I’ve personally been to the Black estate when we were kids. I can get us in.”

Draco rubs at his eyes, expelling an exasperated sigh. If he doesn’t go with them, they’ll pillage the fuck out of Harry’s home. At least if Draco’s there he can oversee what they’re doing.

“Fine,” he says, resigned. “I’m in.”

Pansy jumps into his lap then, her excitement bubbling as she shoots him a pleased smile.

“You’ll see!” she cries, placing a warm, wet kiss onto Draco’s left cheek. “You’ll feel so much better afterwards. You won’t think twice about it being Potter!”

All of his silly desires to dissipate Pureblood culture from the inside-out comes crashing down on Draco, a glaring light to his own ineptitude and ironic privilege as he faces this conundrum. It doesn’t matter that he has damning information that might blow the Ministry up. It doesn’t even matter that he’s found himself somewhat developing romantic feelings for Harry. His own narrow show of frivolousness and petty revenge is thrown back into his face at his friends’ desire to steal from Harry, and he realises that he has no voice here.

And what was all this for?

Nothing _._

\--------

Tonight’s the night.

Once again, Draco allows himself to be swept into Theo’s antics. Draco figures if he’s going to go through with robbing Harry, he’s going to need to be completely obliterated. An entire eight-ball of Theo’s cocaine is sectioned into pretty, thin, white lines across a glass mirror on Pansy’s ornate mahogany coffee table as music pumps throughout her Marylebone flat. It doesn’t take long before Millie and Pansy are dancing together, cackling away as Draco sniffs up half of Theo’s offering. Somewhere along the way, Theo stopped bringing just a gram or two to their meets and Draco doesn’t want to consider what that says about him and his friends. He doesn’t want to worry about it, not when his spiral into despair is swallowed up in a great mouth of euphoria. He swallows his pain down only to spit out nothing but feelings of good cheer. At that moment, it doesn’t matter if it’s not real.

Pansy and Millie start to put on their all-black ensemble—black trousers, black shirts, black boots, hats, and gloves. They throw black calfskin leather gloves to Draco and Theo, having urged them before meeting up to dress the same for tonight’s adventure. Draco arrived at Pansy’s flat early, dressed like he’s going to a fashionable funeral in his black, knee-length, button-down tunic over black jeans, a fitted short, black leather jacket thrown on. He’s wearing his Louboutin tasselled loafers—just because Harry likes them so much.

\---

Draco only remembers Grimmauld Place from his childhood. It takes him an embarrassing amount of time to realise that he needs to walk back and forth alone before the spot where the property is, for it to appear. He’s triumphant when it finally does materialise like a mirage. He whips around to face his friends before turning the doorknob.

“We’re only looking for the cloak, right?” he hisses.

Theo, Millie, and Pansy beam at him, a chorus of “of course!” and “yeah!”

Draco’s eyes narrow, not believing them for a second. “Don’t give me that shit. A Slytherin’s Oath, you shitty bastards! Our only goal is to find Potter’s Cloak of Invisibility and get the fuck out of here.”

Millie steps forward. “I can promise from all of us that we’ll only search and take the Invisibility Cloak, Draco. Are you sure Potter doesn’t have any elves? It’s not like he has a home away from London,” Millie says, her concern written across her face.

“I doubt our saviour would own a house-elf,” Draco retorts, turning the doorknob and stepping into the small, dark foyer.

A damp smell hits him and Draco’s nose crinkles. A portrait hangs with its drapes drawn. After a quick, cautious look around, he steps aside to let his friends in.

“Merlin, it smells awful in here,” Pansy mutters, covering her nose behind a dainty gloved hand. “How can he stand it?”

“He’s remodelling the place,” Draco shoots back defensively. “Just be quiet, all of you. Take the parlours and I’ll take the bedrooms. I doubt Potter has any ancestral portraits hanging about but be careful regardless. You lot promised, if we can’t find it after half an hour we’re out of here,” Draco says, his hand already on the banister leading upstairs.

“We know,” Pansy says, her hand still over her nose. “A Slytherin’s Oath.”

“Good,” Draco mutters, heading up the stairs.

When he reaches the first-floor landing he notices that the sconces on the wall come to life for him, dim pools of light illuminating the dark path down the narrow hallway. Draco can make out a curved, ominous staircase at the very end, and he knows that he does not want to creep up those stairs, fear crawling up the back of his spine. He doesn’t know how Harry can live here, with its dark corners and musty smell.

He draws in a breath and opens the first door to his right. There’s nothing inside, just a dreary, poorly made-up bedroom. He moves onto the next room to his left and keeps going until he’s finally at the end of the hall near the creepy staircase. When he opens the last door he sighs in relief, happily realising that this must be Harry’s bedroom.

The room exudes care and warmth—Draco can feel tendrils of Harry’s magic looping around him, touching him in a soft caress. The sconces come alive as Draco steps into the room. The scarlet bedsheets, though not silk from what he can see, look comfortable. The pillows are thick and large, pressed against a dark, ornately carved wooden headboard. A chest sits at the foot of the bed reminding Draco of what Harry used to tote around at Hogwarts. He steps towards it but is brought up short when a pop pierces the quiet of the room.

The most miserable, tragic looking elf Draco’s ever seen in his life appears before him.

“Oh bloody hell!” Draco shouts, reeling back.

The elf is ancient, it’s anaemic, leathery, folded skin glistening in the low light of the room. The hair from its ears are protruding, its long nose snout-like and bulbous. The elf’s only redeeming feature is the soft-looking, scarlet cloth wrapped around its thin body.

“Master Black,” the elf wheezes. “Kreacher has been hearing many tales of you and is proud to be of service.” Kreacher bows low.

“Kreacher,” Draco says, now relaxing and thinking quickly. “I’m…not the master of this house, but I’m a Black,” Draco says carefully, eyeing the elf’s reaction.

Kreacher sounds as if he's about to cry. “Master Black is being the sole heir to the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black! Not even Harry Potter is being this, Sir, but Kreacher is being dealing with Harry Potter’s need for Kreacher to wear clothes and take wages! This is not what loyal elves to the House of Black should being doing, Master, and Kreacher is hoping that Master Black is here to be setting to rights the order of this family!” Kreacher cries, still in his deep bow.

Draco runs a hand through his hair. He’s simply not high enough for this.

“Kreacher, I’m sorry Harry is so awful to you—”

“No!” Kreacher screeches, quickly standing upright. The elf now becomes frantic. “Harry Potter is being a good, decent Master, but won’t allow Kreacher to call him Master or care for Mistress Walburga’s portrait! Kreacher is being a good elf for Harry Potter but Harry Potter is not being following the rules—”

“Look Kreacher,” Draco interrupts, an idea, a lie, striking him. “I promise you that your days not spent under tyrannical rule are numbered. I promise I’ll take you away from here if you can just—”

Kreacher suddenly throws himself at Draco’s feet, his bulbous nose, thin lips, and spidery fingers now all over Draco’s Louboutin shoes. Draco flinches, not knowing what to do but stamping down on his initial desire to kick the bloody elf off him. He can’t deal with this shit right now. He wishes he could hex Theo, Pansy and Millie to the next millennium.

Honestly, the nerve of them forcing him to break into Harry’s just for the sake of it! And then Harry, twat that he is, making Draco have fucking feelings for him, and now this goddamn house-elf is slobbering in a worshipful fervour all over his Louboutins as if he’s Merlin incarnate.

It’s. Too. Bloody. Much.

“Oh!” Kreacher cries. “If Master Black is being taking Kreacher away as the one and true heir to the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, Kreacher will be doing anything, _anything,_ Master Black is being needing! Kreacher can’t suffer any longer for fear of death—”

“Fucking hell!” Draco angrily explodes, causing Kreacher to scramble back, protecting his head. “Where the fuck is Potter’s Invisibility Cloak?” Draco shouts, at his wits end.

He feels a flicker of remorse as Kreacher cowers before him.

“Such a _good_ Master, such an _amazing_ , _worthy,_ Master,” Kreacher says reverently under his breath, his head bowed as he crawls towards Harry’s trunk. His spidery fingers wrap around the edge of it. “Kreacher is a good elf, only being true to his true Master. Kreacher is being showing you where Harry Potter keeps his most treasured trinkets.”

“I just need the bloody cloak.”

“Yes, yes…the cloak _,”_ Kreacher says sagely, lifting the lid of the trunk. “The cloak is being in here, hidden away under strong protective spells, but Kreacher is an elf of this Noble House and is able to—”

“Can you just give me the bloody cloak, please?”

“Oh, yes, yes,” Kreacher replies eagerly, dipping one long, thin arm into the chest in contemplation, his leathery face suddenly lighting up. “Kreacher is finding it, Master Black!”

Kreacher pulls out the cloak, brandishing it with a flourish in front of him. Draco grins.

“Well done, Kreacher. Now, if Harry so happens to ask where it went, you’re forbidden to tell him about this little encounter, do you understand? I was never here. My friends were never here. Do you promise on the Noble Ancient whatever Black household you’ll keep your mouth shut?”

Kreacher cringes, his ears twitching in the dim light. “Yes, Master Black.”

\-----

Draco falls into a deep depression that he hasn’t felt in months. The pain he feels hooks into him, gnarly nails digging into his delicate flesh. Some days he can’t breathe, some days he can’t think.

The week after robbing Potter flies by in a blur. Draco finds that the increased demands of his job distract him from feeling utterly miserable and guilty at having disrespected Harry in such an unfair way. Since breaking into Harry’s, he’s spurned any suggestions from his friends to rob other estates, the rush of excitement and the belief that he was doing some kind of good no longer there for him.

Instead, he worries about the Flint dossier, and wonders what he could possibly do to pass that information along. It would help if he knew who to trust. Even though his heart aches for Harry, he doesn’t know if the man would believe that Draco has nothing to do with the documents he’s suddenly exposing. Will people think they belong to him? How will he prove he found them in Edward Flint’s office?

Draco fucked himself without knowing, and now he has these dangerous documents that could easily be tied back to him and only him.

\---

Coming from his morning meeting with the Chief Prosecutor and staff, he approaches Barbara’s station, shooting her a small smile as she gets to her feet.

“Mr Malfoy, I’ve got your memos here. And Harry Potter is waiting in your office,” Barbara says.

“Oh, thank y—what _?_ ” Draco stops, the memos nearly slipping from his hands.

“Your memos?”

“No, did you say Harry Potter is in my office?” he asks, aghast.

Barbara gives an exasperated sigh. “That man was giving me a headache. He wouldn’t stop fidgeting at my desk waiting for you, so I sent him to wait in your office. Don’t look so surprised, you’re hardly seen without him nowadays.”

Draco feels faint. He hasn't seen Harry since the Shafiq Quidditch match, their last conversation ending with threats. He heard through the grapevine that Harry returned from his mission just a few days ago, a bit battered but in one piece, having successfully closed the case. Draco’s happy he’s been able to avoid Harry in the canteen and lifts, afraid that if face-to-face with the other man, he’ll blurt out – “I fucking stole your Cloak of Invisibility and now my friends are taking turns using it for Merlin knows what…probably gross, nefarious reasons!”

“Well. Thanks for that,” Draco says, bitter.

“You’d do best not to use that tone of voice with me _,_ _bwoy_ ,” Barbara hisses, her dark eyes narrowed to slits.

Draco takes a half step back, suddenly worried that the old woman might somehow hex him through her eyes.

“Noted, I promise,” he says placatingly as he makes his way to his office, wondering if Barbara sorted Slytherin.

When he opens his office door, Harry is slouched in the chair before Draco’s desk, his head tilted up and gaze fixed on the ceiling, hands clasped across his stomach. Draco wants to smile at the sight, but the desire is belied by the growing fear in the pit of his stomach. He doesn’t know what Harry knows.

He steps fully into the room, the door slamming shut behind him and startling Harry out of his daze.

“What can I help you with, Potter? I’m terribly busy,” Draco says, hurrying towards his place behind his desk.

Harry straightens in his seat, an uncomfortable expression on his handsome face. Draco notices that there’s a new scar on Harry: a thin short line across the base of his neck, as if someone tried to slice his throat open. He’s suddenly reminded of the polaroids he stole from the Flint home. He swallows as he pictures the man who had his throat sliced open, and wonders if Harry encountered the same executioner. To Draco’s disbelief, the scar on Harry’s neck hasn’t healed properly, and he realises that it was probably from a cursed knife. Draco stamps down on the overwhelming rush of indignant anger, as well as his desire to ask Harry about it.

“Draco,” Harry starts, his voice thick and raspy. Potter looks nervous as he runs a hand through his hair. “Merlin, I’ve been dying to say this to you for ages. Look, I want to apologise for what I said at the Shafiq Quidditch thing...I was rude to you. I said some things that were _way_ out of line and I’m so sorry for it.”

Draco panics.

He’s not quite sure what he expected when he heard Harry was waiting for him in his office—an accusation? Fisticuffs? An actual arrest _?_ He knows for sure he didn’t expect Harry apologising to him.

Draco swallows, settling back in his seat with an outward, cool nonchalance. “You’re fine, Potter. We were both a bit hot-headed that day, don’t go and pop your clogs over it. You’re forgiven.”

Harry’s body becomes slack with relief. “Good. I don’t want to lose this,” he says, a hand gesturing between them. “I’ve really come to appreciate our time together, and to be honest, you’re all I’ve been able to think about since that charity event.” He laughs. “Sorry if that makes me sound a bit barmy.”

Draco smirks weakly. “You never have to worry about that. You’ll always be a loon to me.”

“You’re funny _,_ ” Harry says, sticking his tongue out at Draco.

It should make him look utterly ridiculous, but Draco is ruined to find that it’s adorable.

“I’m sorry,” Draco says, his eyebrows rising. “Is that all you need from me today, Potter?”

Harry clears his throat. “I do have some news to share. We have a new case right now dealing with break-ins at Pureblood properties. Have you heard about it?”

Draco internally wants to scream, the blood rushing hot throughout his body as he tries to control his breathing. There’s no way in hell Harry can know it’s been him. Their conversation would have started with a full Body-Bind had Harry thought so.

Draco quells his inner drama and rolls his eyes. “I run in the same circles as some of these people, so of course. There’s been chatter.”

“Yeah, Robards has assigned me the case with a small team. You know, to test out my Team Leadership skills. I’m nervous,” Harry admits with a sheepish smile. “Right now, we have nothing. Not a single clue to indicate how or why these break-ins are happening.”

“I heard they stole some rather expensive jewellery.”

“And priceless art, clothing, and…everything in between.” Harry runs a hand through his hair again. “Look, you’re probably going to hear about this detail from the Chief Prosecutor anyway, but, whoever is doing this is also stealing family heirlooms, really _Dark_ family heirlooms. They keep sending them anonymously to the Department of Mysteries with some rather complex protective charms around them via owl. The DMLE believes the protective magic is connected to runic magic, but we’re not sure what kind, and we don’t even have a hard pull on the magical signatures from the objects we have already. We’re still investigating the mechanics behind the runic magic, but so far we’re at a loss. This whole ordeal is causing quite a stir because after the war, the Ministry was supposed to investigate any family that had ties with Voldemort during any of the two wars. The thief sends a missive that explains which family owned what, and the Department of Mysteries has been having a field-day either working out the Dark magic of the artefacts or figuring out who bloody sent it.” Harry heaves a sigh. “It’s been a mess.”

Draco leans back in his chair, pasting a pensive look on his face. It’s been a rather exhaustive journey, even with the notes Draco acquired from Lucius’s study, when he started to collect cursed family heirlooms. Working out where each of the artefacts came from and what their purposes were, without getting cursed himself, took patience and meticulousness.

“Sounds like you have a rather difficult case ahead of you,” Draco says casually.

Harry nods, a serious look in his eyes. “I do.”

Draco’s mind races. Perhaps he could work this case from the inside out—make sure a whiff of his antics with his friends haven’t caught DMLE’s attention. Harry wouldn’t be discussing this with him in such detail if he thought him a suspect.

“If you want, and if my boss agrees, I…could help out on the case,” Draco offers , though his heart is pounding. “I do have a vested interest in the matter. The Ministry removed Dark artefacts from Malfoy Manor immediately following the war, but I’ve been worried about having some of our more precious belongings lifted by this thief since hearing about the break-ins.”

The relief that floods across Harry’s face is palpable. It leaves a sour taste in Draco’s mouth.

“I was actually going to ask you personally if you’d help out on the case. You’re the only person in this department with ties to this breed of Pureblood.” Harry laughs. “I’ve explained to Robards and the Chief Prosecutor that it might help to have you active on the case. And it’ll help you, I think, if you show some of those Pureblood arses that you’re not as bad as they think you are. If you’re helping to solve their break-ins, they can’t continue to say all the rubbish they’ve been sprouting about you lately.”

 _Oh, but I don’t give a toss what they think about me_ , he thinks as he smirks at Harry.

“Why, Potter, how very Slytherin of you,” Draco quips. “Yes. I’ll help you with your little case.”

Harry smiles at him.

Merlin, that smile. That smile causes butterflies in Draco’s stomach.

He hopes this, all of it, doesn’t come back to bite him in the arse.


	7. Chapter 7

_Who made up all the rules_

_We follow them like fools_

_Believe them to be true_

_Don't care to think them through_

_And I'm sorry_

_So sorry_

_I'm sorry_

_It's like this_

_I'm sorry_

_So sorry_

_I'm sorry_

_We do this._

_**They/** _ **Jem**

Draco is summoned to Level Two to sit in on Harry’s debriefing on the Pureblood Break-in case the next day. He leans against the doorjamb as he watches Harry slam his fist onto the surface of the table, rattling the glasses of water set in front of his team members.

"We’re supposed to bring this person to _justice_. Laughing about their crimes just because it’s targeting rich Purebloods offers no relief to us. They’re still a criminal that needs to be stopped before things escalate—”

“How can you not find this funny, Harry?” Zacharias Smith says, his long blond hair swinging with the force of his chuckles.

Harry’s shrivelling gaze fixes on Smith, his lips curling upward into a sneer.

Draco clears his throat and several eyes land on him.

“I agree with Potter,” he says from his position in the doorway.

“Ah. Mr Malfoy, how lovely for you to have finally joined us,” Robards says, his ruddy face sour.

With a shrewd little smile Draco makes his way over to an empty seat across from Harry. He stands behind it as Robards, who has been sat at the head of the conference table stands from his seat, his beady eyes narrowing into a glower as he looks out at the small crowd.

“Mr Malfoy will be joining this taskforce not just as someone who will procure permission and warrants from the Wizengamot with our future cases, but as someone who will also attend and assist on interrogations pertaining to this current on-going case,” he announces before plopping back into his seat.

At this, several people around the room bustle. Draco doesn’t care – as soon as he stepped from the doorway, half the room fixed him with hateful eyes, the other half merely looked suspicious. He doesn’t expect miracles—it’s only been three years since the war, and even though he’s making a career out of putting away bad guys, Draco _is_ one of those bad guys.

“As I was saying,” Draco starts, his voice pitched in a bored, low tone, a crooked half-smile that Pansy once told him makes him look demented flashing across his face. “I agree with Potter. As does the majority of the Wizengamot. They have voted to throw their full support behind this investigation and will not endorse this... _vigilante_ ,” Draco says the word with disgust, even though his toes curl in glee.

Someone off to the right of him snorts.

“Of course, throwing all the department’s resources to work on this case benefits you and only you in this room, Malfoy. The vigilante is targeting your kind!” says an older man. Robinson, Draco recalls. “You and all your Death Eater mates.”

Draco smiles as some people gasp and several others nod with humming sounds of agreement.

Draco lifts a hand and waves it dismissively. “It’s no secret that I was a Death Eater, Robinson. Stronger men than you have challenged me because of my past.” Draco fixes Robinson with a defiant gaze before letting it fall away to sweep across the room. “I’ve made my peace a long time ago. I’m not afraid of my past, and it certainly has no bearing on how I handle my cases, especially this one.”

“You’re a snake,” Robinson growls. “This is madness. _Madness_ that we have to work alongside someone like you!”

“Enough!” Harry barks. “Regardless of Malfoy being within the targeted audience, or his bloody past, he is a part of this team now. If you have a problem with it, feel free to find me afterwards to discuss it, though I promise you it will not end the way you’ll want it to,” Harry threatens, his eyes hard.

Draco swallows hard as he finally takes his seat. An incensed Harry is quite sexy, Draco realises as he fights the smirk that threatens to cross his face.

“More to the point,” Harry continues, “we’re not _just_ doing this for the Pureblood families. We have a responsibility to not only take these break-ins seriously, but to investigate the families themselves. So far, we have received sixteen Dark, cursed family ‘heirlooms’ from families with suspected connections to Voldemort during both wars. These objects are dangerous and should have been confiscated right after the war, not left to be displayed on a bloody mantel!”

“I still believe that there’s more than one person involved,” says an older woman with short dreadlocks. Gibbons. Draco recognises her as the Auror who came to collect him during his short waiting period in Azkaban for his trial after the war. “It’s not _just_ Dark heirlooms being lifted. There’s clothing, jewellery, books, and rare antiques. It has to be a group. I suspect at least three or four others involved.”

Harry nods. “I happen to agree with you, Ashley. That’s why it’s important that we have appropriate suggested profiles on the types of individuals that might be involved,” Harry says, tapping a pile of folders placed on the table before him. “I want offender observations leading to sufficient reasons for these crimes, maybe actual suspected individuals on my desk within the next 24-hours.”

“None of the Purebloods—I’m sorry, _victims_ —reported their missing Dark artefacts, Harry. I say we bring all these families in for questioning and interrogate the hell out of them until someone starts speaking up about how they skated under the Ministry’s nose after the war,” Andrews, Harry’s new Auror partner says, leaning on the back legs of his chair.

What a daft fool. Draco hopes Andrews falls backwards in his chair. “You hardly have to look too far to find your answer, Andrews. Whomever told you that the Ministry at its core isn’t just another greedy corporation lied to you,” Draco says.

“You’re an employee of this Ministry, Malfoy!” someone shouts from the back of the room. Patil, Draco pins.

“How _dare_ you!” Andrews hisses in tandem, his pale blue eyes flashing. “The Ministry has cleaned house of people like that—”

“Yeah, Malfoy! We’ve drained the swamp!” Smith growls. “With the exception of your sorry arse—”

“We obviously failed at doing our jobs by not finding these heirlooms sooner,” Harry counters, his tone glacial as he stares down Smith and Andrews. “And yes. It does speak to a larger issue at hand within the Ministry, but we’ll save that conversation for another day,” he continues, exhaustion crossing his face. “Gibbons, Robinson, Smith – you lot are in charge of the first round of interviews. Remember, they are victims. We’re not going to pin anything on anyone until we have cold hard evidence. Got that, Smith?” Harry pauses as he waits for Smith to bow his head. “Andrews, Jones, Phillips, you lot are tasked with following up with the Department of Mysteries. Patil and Barnes—you both will begin to build profiles on our suspected persons. Martin and Lu, I’ll need you both to review our inventory and evidentiary reports, I’d like them on Draco’s desk before the end of day, so he can provide proper notations as well. Do we have any questions?”

Somewhere in the background, someone whispers in an incredulous tone, “ _Draco?”_

Harry doesn’t respond, and when no one answers his demands, Robards clears his throat.

“Excellent Auror Potter,” Robards says with a nod. “I hope you all heard your tasks? This taskforce is off to a brilliant start under Potter’s lead, and just as a reminder, if there are any pressing queries, Auror Potter is Lead on this. If he’s unavailable, please direct your questions to Junior Prosecutor Malfoy."

There are several groans after that, but Robards ignores them as he sweeps out the room. Harry instead smiles out at the crowd of Aurors.

“You lot are dismissed.”

As the room clears, Harry shoots Draco a small smile and a wink before following his teammates. Draco’s about to get up from his own seat when a hand slaps him on his shoulder, keeping him in place.

Scott Andrews. A brutish man and transport from MACUSA’s New York City branch, he always treats Draco with open hostility. Naturally, Draco hates the man’s guts.

“Shouldn’t you be following the heels of your daft partner?” Draco asks.

Andrews scowls. “You two don’t fool me. I could be blind and still notice those puppy-dog eyes Potter’s constantly making at you,” he shoots back.

“You’re sorely mistaken. Potter and I hate each other very, very much,” Draco says, jerking his shoulder from under Andrews’s touch. Draco wrinkles his nose. This close, he can smell the man’s heavy, clove-scented cologne. “What do you want?”

“I want in on your personal notations for this case, Malfoy. Potter is my partner after all.”

Draco can feel his upper lip tighten as he now rises to his feet to face the other man. He’s a good few inches taller than Andrews, which to Draco makes his glare all the more powerful.

“That type of information is officially above your paygrade, Auror,” Draco drawls. “I only share information with Robards, your _team leader_ Potter, and my Prosecution team. Your boss then decides what to share with you.”

“Oh yeah, says who?”

“Procedure says so, Andrews. Procedure.”

Andrews steps in closer to Draco, his chin tilting up. Draco quickly assesses who would win if it came down to a duel. Andrews is much bulkier than Draco’s lithe form, and could easily win if it came down to fisticuffs, but Draco has agility on his side, and could probably draw his wand faster than the Auror…

“You’re a miserable piece of shit, you know that, Malfoy?” Andrews says. Draco notices that his wand hand starts to twitch at his side. “You people think you can just snap your fingers or throw some money at a situation and your problems are solved. It’s no wonder someone is finally starting to fuck with you all.”

Draco smirks, not just because of the irony, but because he recalls the picture he happened across in the Flint dossier of Andrews and Marcus Flint. “And what about you, Andrews? Are you easily motivated by a snapped finger and a few galleons tossed your way?”

There’s a moment of silence that stretches between them, racked with tension. Andrews’s eyes narrow as he searches Draco’s face. For what, Draco doesn’t know, but a slow, predatory smile spills across the other man’s face which causes a twist of dread in the pit of Draco’s stomach. Draco falters, and Andrews finally takes a step back, then another.

“I’ll be seeing you around, Malfoy,” Andrews says before exiting the conference room.

Draco runs a hand through his hair, confused and alarmed. He doesn’t question whether or not someone would be able to peer into his mind. Years and years of compartmentalisation and Occlumency has helped him stay protected in that regard. But for just the tiniest moment, he felt as if Andrews saw something in Draco that he’s tried to hide for years.

The consuming enormity of his fear.

——

They spend their free time in each other’s presence, despite the overwhelming guilt Draco feels anytime he looks Harry in the eyes, but he’s learning how to compartmentalise those particular feelings. The first time Harry had invited Draco to Grimmauld Place, nearly a month has gone by since Draco and his friends broke in to steal Harry’s cloak of invisibility. Oddly enough, Harry was either unaware that it was missing, or he had decided to keep this detail to himself. No one on their task force mentioned Harry as a victim, and when Kreacher popped into existence that first time Draco entered the house beside Harry, the elf did not give away his surprise at seeing Draco again. But it was only that one time he’s seen the elf for more than a few strained seconds.

Draco enjoys coming to Grimmauld, especially now that Harry is starting to slowly repair the place, the damp smell and dark, shady corners now gone. Sometimes they would go over interviews of the Pureblood families detailing their missing items. Other times they reviewed each families’ financial contributions made to the Ministry. But Draco’s favourite thing to do with Harry is read to him, a habit that Harry has encouraged, while they sip on wine or work their way through takeaway.

And today is no different. It’s a rainy Friday evening and Draco’s curled up on one of Grimmauld’s overstuffed settees. Harry gave Draco an unfamiliar Muggle book earlier in the week, _The Beautiful and the Damned_ , which he then proceeded to niggle Draco into reading out loud.

Harry sits cross legged on the floor of his sitting room, a plastic container of pilau rice and chicken tikka masala sat on his lap, case notes fanned around him in a disastrous semi-circle system only he can understand. Draco’s own container of food rests forgotten on a table beside him, the book drawing his entire focus.

“Beautiful things grow to a certain height and then they fail and fade off, breathing out memories as they decay. And just as any period decays in our minds, the things of that period should decay too, and in that way, they're preserved for a while in the few hearts like mine that react to them. That graveyard at Tarrytown, for instance. The asses who give money to preserve things have spoiled that too. Sleepy Hollow's gone; Washington Irving's dead and his books are rotting in our estimation year by year - then let the graveyard rot too, as it should, as all things should.” Draco pauses, an odd feeling overcoming him as he reads this section. “Trying to preserve a century by keeping its relics up to date is like keeping a dying man alive by stimulants,” Draco reads, his tone low and calming to his ears.

Harry looks up at him. “I think this kind of mentality rings true for our vigilante,” he says.

Draco happens to agree. He swallows, quirking an eyebrow. “How so?”

Harry takes a bite from his plate, looking contemplative as he uses his free hand to shuffle through his case notes, pulling one parchment onto his lap to gaze down at. “Well, I’ve been building a profile on this person with Padma and Sarah’s input. I’d wager the contents of my vault that the offender is a Pureblood. Probably disenchanted by the circumstances of their life post-war. Like what Fitzgerald talks about, nothing will ever be the same for the character. The beauty is lost for Gloria. Maybe our offender feels like these Purebloods celebrating their perfect post-war life are trying to preserve something that should just die—stay dead—I don’t know. It’s just a thought,” Harry says with a shrug, tossing the parchment away from him before taking another bite.

Draco closes the book with a snap. Harry is hitting a bit too close to home right now.

“Interesting insights, Potter.”

Harry sighs. “I have to hand it to them, though. It’s bold, what they’re doing, calling out these Pureblood families for their underhandedness. It’s about time that the Ministry starts to re-evaluate their alliances to some of these old Sacred Twenty-Eight authority figureheads. During Voldemort’s reign over the Ministry a lot of these members were active in his Stay of power, and claimed that they were Imperiused and therefore not of sound mind and body. The Ministry kept them on because of money. They were able to buy their way into higher positions even after the war. There needs to be a serious complete and total overhaul of these unfair practices. I think that time is upon us.”

“Potter,” Draco starts, his voice distant, his brain short-circuiting as it tries to piece together several bizarre instances. It all seems to be pointing to what Draco can only assume is: “Are you trying to start a coup within the Ministry?”

Harry chuckles, his face lighting up with a cheeky sort of amusement that Draco finds both annoying and incredibly sexy. “I wouldn’t put it like that. But you’ll come to find that there are people within the Ministry who would like nothing more than to take some of our authority figures to task. Seems like our vigilante’s actions have at least prompted a conversation about some of the prominent Ministry employees and their questionable actions right after the war until now.”

“I’m shocked that you’re able to think so critically,” Draco teases, but in all actuality, he’s quite impressed at the depth of Harry’s understanding.

Draco shivers. It’s a good thing Harry Potter isn’t an evil or weak man — it would be so easy for a lesser man with a strong distaste for the Ministry to turn a conversation about change into a tyrannical movement to “overhaul” their current political system. Harry is a good man, and Draco yearns, oh Merlin, how he yearns to be the nice person Harry seems to think he is.

Harry snorts, swallowing his mouthful of curry. “You’re a prick,” he says before setting his food to the side. “Come here, Draco,” Harry demands, his voice thick and throaty.

Draco smiles playfully. “No.”

Harry rests his hand on Draco’s knee. “Come down here.”

“What for?”

“So I can cuddle you,” Harry suggests.

It’s a sweet suggestion, but Draco shakes his head. He still can’t believe they do this. In the few weeks that have gone by since Harry returned from his mission, they’ve developed a pattern of sorts. They sit together, eat together, read together, and yes, even hold one another after heavy petting and snogging. Draco’s been in a lovely daze, enjoying the way Harry makes him feel alive when they’re together like this. Although the gloom in Draco’s chest doesn’t disappear, it feels a little bit lighter when Harry’s around.

Harry’s hand tightens on his knee and Draco gives in.

“You can hold me, but that’s all I want outta you,” Draco whispers as he slides onto the floor beside Harry, not caring that he’s sitting on half of their case notes. His hands come up to cup Harry’s face as he softly presses their lips together. Draco’s nose wrinkles. “You taste like curry.”

Harry laughs. “You don’t say. Merlin, I’m so sorry, your highness. Should I have used a refreshing charm so as not to overwhelm your delicate palate? I didn’t mean to—”

“Just shut up and kiss me, you utter twat,” Draco growls, his fingers curling in Harry’s hair to pull him into a heated kiss, eagerly licking into his curry-flavoured mouth. “I don’t want your mouth anywhere near my dick right now, just to let you know,” Draco says against his lips.

Although they’ve teased about doing more, they haven’t done anything beyond heated snogging and some rather lovely frottage. A spike of jittery nerves shoots throughout his body at the idea of them exploring a whole new level.

Draco can feel Harry’s grin against his mouth and he can’t stop his own grin against Harry’s mouth.

“You haven’t had a bite of your curry yet, so your mouth on my dick will work out just fine,” Harry says.

“You smug bastard,” Draco laughs, pulling Harry into a deeper kiss before teasing him some more. He wants to press their bodies as close together as possible right now. He loves how Harry feels against him.

“You’re so good at this,” Harry murmurs as Draco continues to frantically caress Harry’s lips with his own.

“Getting off?” Draco gasps out against his mouth.

“No. I mean, yeah, but,” Harry pauses, cocking his head back and biting his lower lip as his eyes flit across Draco’s face. There’s a blush staining across his cheeks that Draco has no business finding so endearing. “You make me happy. I know it hasn’t been long, but I just want you to know that you make me happy.”

Draco pulls back completely now, his arms coming away from Harry’s body. He runs a shaky hand through his hair as he stares at Harry’s now shy expression. Merlin. Something sappy and warm is growing in Draco’s chest. He feels like a complete fucking monster for it.

“Are you sure?” Draco asks in a shaky voice. “Me? Really?”

“Yeah, you, you crazy bugger,” Harry says shyly, a hand coming up to caress Draco’s cheek. “Don’t you feel the same?”

“Harry,” Draco starts, using a hand to pull Harry’s away from his face. “I don’t think you’re taking into consideration that I’m an arsehole.”

Harry laughs. “I know you’re an arsehole. I actually love that part of you. You lock away a bit of yourself, and only someone that’s really _looking_ will notice that that part of yourself is closed off. I see it. I want to unlock it.”

A sharp pain shoots through Draco at Harry’s words—a line right down the middle of his heart. What Harry wants to unlock are some of the darkest, cruellest parts of Draco, and Draco would rather die than be exposed like that. He releases a breath and sags against Harry, his thoughts a messy jumble as the other man caresses his cheek.

“I know it hasn’t been that long, but Draco, there’s something special happening here, and I want it to happen. I’ll admit, it took me by surprise, but I’ve welcomed it with open arms. I want to know all of you. Please let me.”

Draco swallows. He places a hand over Harry’s, removing it from his cheek. “What are you trying to say? Are you trying to—what are—what are you trying to say? Because, you’re right. It hasn’t—it hasn’t been that long, and I don’t know if I can be what you want me to—” Draco rushes out softly before Harry frees his hand to place a finger against Draco’s lips.

“Relax. I would never ask you to do something you’re not ready for or comfortable with. But, I will ask you to keep an open mind to this, whatever it is that's growing between us,” Harry says as his finger slips away.

Draco turns away from those earnest green eyes, so full of compassion and kindness. For a heart-wrenching moment, Draco feels absolutely miserable and unworthy to be on the receiving end of such kind words and riveting look. There’s still so much negative history between them—and yes, since Draco’s first day of work they’ve been slowly chipping away at some of their darker shared experiences, but it’s not _enough._ He can’t find it logical to make any kind of promise to Harry, not with their past, this case, the very real, pressing fact that Draco and his friends robbed Harry just weeks ago, and Draco’s own unsure, murky future. He wants to say yes so badly, but he knows it’s not right.

Draco is not a good man, no matter what Pansy says to him when they’re both high off their tits together. But Draco can _try_ to be good—at least in sparing Harry from the heartache that will follow if Draco’s ever caught for his crimes.

“Harry,” Draco starts, not meeting his gaze. “I don’t know what you possibly see in me.”

“Let me show you, then,” Harry whispers, his arms wrapping around Draco’s body as their lips meet once more.

“ _Oh_ ,” Draco groans, surprised and eager all at once as his fingers slide into Harry’s hair.

They kiss, Harry slowly coaxing Draco’s mouth open with tender slips of his tongue against his bottom lip. Draco shamelessly moans into the deepening kiss, his hands tightening in Harry’s hair as Harry’s hands slide under Draco’s shirt, his calloused hands hot against Draco’s flanks as he slowly caresses Draco skin from his hips towards his ribcage, never breaking the kiss.

Draco allows Harry to lower him to the rug then climb on top, his body maneuvering and slotting between Draco’s legs perfectly. And it’s a blink of an eye before their clothes are gone, and their kisses have turned from explorative to ravenous. Draco moans and thrusts up against Harry. They’re going to have sex, and the enormity of what that means doesn’t strike Draco until Harry is pressing gentle kisses down Draco’s body, his breath ghosting over Draco’s cock.

Draco hasn’t slept with anyone since Bitty, and he hasn’t slept with someone he cares for, truly cares for, in almost a year. But none of that matters. His lack of sex pales when confronting the reality that they’re about to take their relationship out onto unknown waters. He’s self-aware enough to know that he’s not physically or mentally ready to combat this kind of change, and that makes him dizzy with panic.With every ounce of willpower, Draco’s hands scramble from Harry’s hair to his shoulders to hold him in place.

“Wait,” Draco rasps out.

Harry lifts his head, his glasses slightly askew. “What’s wrong?”

“I…” Draco starts, his voice catching. He blinks down at Harry’s openly concerned face. Draco shakes his head. “I just _can’t_.”

He lifts a hand from Harry’s shoulder to palm his cheek instead, Harry’s eyes closing briefly at the touch before he turns his face to kiss Draco’s palm.

“It’s okay,” Harry whispers, pulling away from the touch and from off of Draco to sit, legs pulled up to his chest. He straightens his glasses before folding his arms over his knees. He stares at Draco, waiting patiently for Draco to sit up as well.

“I’m not sure what it is you want from me.”

Harry grins. “It wasn’t obvious with my mouth on your cock?”

Draco rolls his eyes, but can’t help the tug of a smile on his lips. “You know what I mean.”

Harry runs a hand through his hair. “Yeah, I do. I mean, ideally, Draco? I thought I was clear. I’d like you to eventually be my boyfriend.”

Draco pauses, his head hanging. A low, disappointed sigh escapes him. “Harry. I don’t know if I can ever agree to that. I’m sorry. I do really enjoy our time together and, Merlin, I really enjoyed being with you like this. I just hope that’s enough for you, because I can’t promise you anything beyond a good time.”

Even as the words leave his mouth, Draco hates himself in a way he’s never experienced before. He feels gross saying these things to Harry after experiencing only tenderness from the other man.

Harry draws a deep, shaky breath. He gives a weary shake of his head. “I just need to know that you also believe that there’s something here worth exploring in depth,” he says. “That maybe one day we can just... _be_.”

A sharp pain shoots through Draco’s chest. Harry’s words hurt because they’re so inherently hopeful, and Draco just isn’t. He doesn’t want to be selfish, he doesn’t want to hurt Harry, and he knows down the line he will because he’s incapable of holding onto anything good. He squares his shoulders.

“Right,” Draco says, clambering to his feet. He searches the ground for his clothes, quickly throwing them on as Harry quietly watches him from the floor. When he finally laces up his shoes, his gaze catches on his briefcase. “I’m really sorry. I’ll just go.”

“Right,” Harry repeats in a whisper, his own gaze fixed on the space Draco just vacated.

“You deserve better. I know you know that,” Draco says softly.

“You don’t know what I deserve. You don’t even know what you deserve,” Harry says quietly.

“Just _stop,_ ” Draco hisses. His anger is consuming, stemming from somewhere deep inside himself that’s a burning self-hatred. “Stop. This was never going to be easy, whatever is happening between us. It’s better if we let this cool down because we obviously want different things. We’re both not thinking too clearly and I don’t want to make any mistakes seeing as we have to work together,” Draco says, feeling slightly ill at the hurt look on Harry’s face. “I’ll see you for our Monday morning briefing.”

With that, Draco grabs his briefcase and heads towards the front door without looking back.

\----

Unable to avoid it much longer and in desperate need to not think about Harry every few seconds, Draco reopens the Flint dossier. After putting out an emergency cigarette, he pulls the files from the hidden hole behind an old Malfoy tapestry hanging in his office, spreading its contents across his large table as Sprinkles sprawls out on her belly at the foot of his chair.

Draco pulls out his wand and checks, for the hundredth time since taking the files, for any tracking spells. He swallows back a wave of nausea as he flips through the images once more, pulling towards him several runic charts from the 2nd to 15th centuries that might help him uncover the meaning behind the letters and numbers on the bottom of each polaroid. Nothing makes sense. They’re not a code for a certain spell, or location, or name. He presses his palms to his eyes before turning his attention to the snoozing dog at his feet. He leans back in his leather chair, crossing his arms against his chest as he heaves a heavy, exhausted sigh.

“What d’you think, Sprinkles?” Draco asks, the puppy’s ear twitching. “Perhaps I’m putting too much faith in the old Flint bastard’s intelligence. Runes as code? He seems too simple a man for that.”

The puppy smacks her lips, turning her head just so on the top of her paws for a better sleeping position.

“Yeah, you’re right. I should be thinking along the lines of simplicity, but not too simple, something the average Wizard wouldn’t readily think of...maybe...something Muggle?” Draco asks, now rubbing his chin.

At this, Sprinkles looks up at him letting out a high-pitched yawn.

“Right again, my darling girl,” Draco says with a nod, pulling himself closer to the desk. His eyes search through the images and the ledger. “Something Muggle, something still along the lines of cryptographic...Merlin, it’s pretty sick how these Purebloods rely on Muggle knowledge and tools to get away with their crimes...how about…”

Draco scrambles out of his seat, rushing towards the file cabinet that holds some of his runic charts from Hogwarts. He pulls out a number of parchments. He knows he has a Muggle chart in here somewhere. He finally pulls free a heavy, square piece of cardboard with the English alphabet on them...Draco’s nifty _tabula recta._

“Thank Merlin I’ve kept this junk around,” he says excitedly as he makes his way back to his desk to pick up his wand.

He had created the thing as part of his project for Muggle Studies. He had enchanted the chart to automatically shift through the series of letters until the right decipher was found. The magical component had not been part of the project as it was strictly supposed to remain a non-magical project, but out of sheer stubbornness and disrespect, he had ignored the rules.

Draco shudders.

A sudden image of Professor Burbage suspended above the dining table at Malfoy Manor flashes across his mind’s eye. He drops the _tabula recta_ and his wand onto the desk and sits heavily in his seat. Edward Flint had sat at that table, too.

He drops his head into his hands, the sharp emotion of embarrassment and shame cutting through him. What the hell is he doing? What is all this for? Draco doesn’t know what good he can do when he’s just as guilty as these other Purebloods. He has blood on his hands, still.

 _But you want to do better,_ a soft voice encourages softly _. You ARE doing better, and you’re proving that despite all their parties and charities, nothing has changed for some families. And if they stay in power, who knows if another Voldemort-type maniac will have the breeding ground to rise again._

The voice sounds a lot like Harry and Draco shakes his head. He’s going insane. But the Harry-like voice is right.

Slowly, Draco picks up the _tabula recta_ and begins the manual work of figuring out the cipher. A few minutes later, with the Caesar Shift, Draco’s figured out the first connection between the polaroid of the man with the slit throat and the ledger.

Draco swallows, gaping at the unveiled information in front of him.

_Watson, Derrick. Chief Prosecutor Charles Watson. Muggleborn. Department of Magical Games and Sports. January 3rd._

Having started his position at the Ministry only a handful of months ago, Draco is still learning the positions and names of people within the smaller or “less important” functions of the Ministry. He’s made it a personal mission of his as it helps to know middle and lower management. They’re usually the ones with the best gossip and little to lose in spilling it to anyone willing to part with a few galleons. But the big names? Draco is aware of the big names, the up and comers, even if he’s yet to match the names to faces. And it’s unsettling now that he matches Derrick Watson’s name with a picture of him dead, his name popping up within the first few pages of ledger over fifty times, especially since Derrick was said to have moved onto the Department of International Magical Cooperation. Despite the position involving a lot of travel, it’s simply not possible that the Chief Prosecutor would be unaware of his brother’s whereabouts.

Derrick Watson, age 39, was the former Head of the British and Irish Quidditch League Division after Bagman’s disappearance. The position is now held by Marcus Flint.

Draco scrambles to decipher another polaroid.

_Susan Bones. Half-Blood. Heiress._

Draco stares at the name and at the picture of the girl he hasn’t seen since the Battle at Hogwarts. In the polaroid, she’s a brunette, but Draco always remembered her as a dirty blonde. He tries to recall from memory any information about her, only remembering his Mother mentioning her once while droning on about St Mungo’s. And that’s it! A light switches on in his head and Draco scrambles to his feet to one of the armchairs by his empty fireplace. A stack of dusty society magazines his mother insists on sending him is set beside the chair. There’s only one month that he ever skimmed through, and that was the announcement for Pansy and Mother’s Obscura Children’s Orphanage Fundraiser. There was a smaller section, one that had annoyed his mother. Draco finds the issue he’s looking for and urgently flips it open, his heart pounding in his throat.

> _...upon her completion at Hogwarts, Miss Bones joined the charity circuit, the sole survivor of the Bones Family. She was previously one of two of the youngest members on the Board of Trustees at St Mungo’s before Brünnhilde “Hilde” Von Fürstenberg-Agnelli was appointed in lieu of Miss Bones’ relocation to the United States. A bit of a recluse, Miss Bones welcomes the move in the hopes of enjoying her privacy as well as continuing her charity endeavours on an international scale..._

Draco sets the magazine back on the pile, hands shaking.

Susan isn’t in America. Susan’s bloody dead.

Murdered.

And Bitty’s mother took over her position. Draco tries to recall if he’s even _heard_ of a missing person’s notice circulating about someone as prominent as Susan Bones within their community...which seems bloody ridiculous, impossible even. But then again, who would have reported her missing if she was the only living person left in her wealthy family, probably single, and a bit of a recluse after the war?

There’s a monetary number next to her name: 250,000g.

Did the Agnelli family _pay_ the Flints to have Susan Bones murdered? For a bloody _trustee position?_ The Agnelli’s name isn't in the ledger, though. The only connection is the appointment of Hilde and Susan’s polaroid. And what about Watson? Surely the Chief Prosecutor would rain hell on the Ministry if he knew his baby brother had been brutally murdered...or was he somehow involved in the murder and its subsequent coverup?

Draco sighs in frustration, a hand coming up to cover his mouth as he slowly approaches the polaroids again. He finds the most troubling image, the one that has been on his mind since finding the dossier, and deciphers it.

The little boy. Ethan. A Squib born from an extramarital affair between…

 _Kingsley Shacklebolt_ and an unknown Muggle woman.

He suppresses a shiver as he wildly wonders what the everloving fuck is going on. Is the Minister involved in these coverups as well?

Draco slams the little folder of horrors shut in panic and frustration. All the pieces rest in front of him, but he doesn’t necessarily have enough glue to piece the larger picture together, and it’s right there, it’s right on the cusp of making sense. He _has_ to know what this is all about, how this is all happening under the nose of not just the Chief Prosecutor but apparently the Minister for Magic. How has there been no outcry for these victims? Especially a bloody child!

He knows what he has to do now.

\----

The Abbott Sunday charity garden party for The Betterment of Welfare & Life for Magical Creatures Society is in full swing when Draco arrives. There are a lot of enormous hats. It’s been forty-eight hours since he basically told Harry to shove off and thus Draco is massively drunk when he lands in the Abbott’s civilised garden in the early evening. He has an inkling Harry and his friends will be here. Draco has a plan on how he’ll navigate any social situation he finds himself in with the other man. He has an idea on what he’ll say, how he’ll smile, and even what he’ll discuss with Harry’s stupid friends. Draco wants to prove that even though they can’t be together the way they both want to, doesn’t mean they can’t be cordial.

Pansy, beautiful, loyal friend that she is, finds him immediately and puts all those preparations to rest by becoming his focal point. She too, is wearing an enormous white Sunday hat with a whopping bow on the front.

“Merlin, you smell like you bathed in a vat of gin. Are you alright?” Pansy asks as she loops an arm around his, propelling him through the crowd towards the buffet table.

The atmosphere is different at this party—not as stuffy and formal as previous events they’ve visited this summer. The Abbotts are Pureblood enough to be considered one of the community’s ‘token impure members’ within this little monstrous circle of elitism, what with Hannah Abbott herself being a half-blood. Like Millie, she comes from a history of pedigree, despite her family mingling with Muggleborns and distancing themselves from Voldemort’s influences during the two wars.

Draco wonders if she knows her classmate, Susan Bones, is dead or if she thinks the woman has simply stopped responding to whatever owls she sends. He catches sight of Abbott, still as blonde as ever, still wholesome-looking, and now accompanied by a rather fit Neville Longbottom, his arm draped across her shoulders. Draco’s stomach flops unpleasantly when his gaze finally lands on Harry, Granger, and Weasley. Harry doesn’t acknowledge him at all.

Draco grunts as Pansy pinches him, drawing his attention back to her. “I may have had a few before coming to this circus.”

Pansy looks sceptical. “A few? Really, you need to pull yourself together. The photographers are out like mosquitos this evening. Everyone who’s anyone is here.” Just as Pansy says this, a photographer off to the side snaps their picture. “See?” she says under her breath, pausing and twisting the both of them towards the next flash, a plastic smile pasting onto her face as the photographer snaps their picture a few more times.

Draco, not fully inclined on pasting a fake smile, shoots the photographer a grimace. They’ll probably call him broodingly handsome again.

“I’m not in the mood for this shit,” Draco murmurs, plucking a short glass of what looks like Daisyroot Draught from a waiter’s passing tray. Gingerly, he takes a sip of the syrupy concoction.

“You should stop drinking,” Pansy reproves, taking the glass from him, which is all the best for him as his stomach gives an unforgiving lurch at that moment. “You’re going to embarrass yourself.”

“Fuck off, no I won’t,” Draco slurs, stumbling a bit.

Pansy’s grip tightens.

“Draco, if I break a nail keeping your pissed arse upright I’m going to hex you into an early grave,” Pansy threatens, her voice even and calm despite the dangerous flash in her hazel eyes. “What’s brought this on?”

“Where’s the Cloak of Invisibility?” he shoots back, his words slurring viciously, his eyes growing wide. “What are you animals doing with it?”

“Scream it from the rooftops, why don’t you? Merlin!” Pansy whispers, her expression pinched as she tugs him in another direction. “I think we need to find a quiet loo for you to expel some of that liquor…”

Draco belatedly realises that she’s leading him towards the Abbott’s main property entrance.

“No!” Draco hisses, trying to yank himself free from Pansy’s grasp. “I’m not going to let you stick your fingers down my throat.”

Memories of the Yule Ball come to mind—that horrid night when he shared his feelings for Blaise and then became dreadfully drunk on Firewhisky Theo had snuck into the dorms from home. Pansy had to shove her fingers down his throat to ‘help him’ vomit half the bottle up. It had been a painful and mortifying experience _._

“You’d be so lucky to have my fingers in your mouth, you terrible drunk tart. Oh, look! You’ve caught the attention of some well-meaning folks,” Pansy says with an amused lilt.

Theo’s hand is clasped in Millie’s as they approach, his angular face tight in the way that indicates to Draco that he’s high off his rocker.

“Draco! Mate, you look a sight for sore eyes,” Theo says, jovial, wrapping an arm around Millie’s shoulders. “What’s wrong with him?” he asks Pansy.

“Too much to drink with very little reason as far as I can tell,” Pansy says, exasperated. “Help me get him to the loo. No one, especially his mother, needs to see him like this.”

Sometimes Draco wonders why he landed such shit friends. Other times he wonders how he would have ever been able to make it through his adolescence without them. They can be such amazing people, especially when they’re this attentive.

They shuffle him into the Abbott’s property with no one outside their circle wise to Draco’s less than gentlemanly state.

Once crowded in the nearest loo, Draco’s knees crack and ache against the tile as he falls before the toilet, vomiting up the liquor he’s consumed for the last several hours. All without the help of Pansy’s fingers.

“Merlin!” he hears Millie cry as he vomits.

“For fucks sake, Draco. What the hell is going on?” Theo shouts.

Pansy squats down beside him, a cold wet flannel in her hands ready for him when he pulls back from the pristine porcelain toilet. She dampens his face with it, cooling him down as what sounds like soft, consoling words from her lips. He leans into her touch, a soft whimper escaping him as his hands grip the edge of the toilet’s mouth.

“There, there. This is just shaping up to be a bad day for you. We all have them, don’t we?” Pansy murmurs, her soft voice clear and pointed, head swivelling around to glare at Theo and Millie. “We all have bad fucking days so wipe those judgemental looks off your bloody faces!” she snaps, an arm coming to rest across Draco’s shoulders. “We’re not fucking perfect!”

“This is _Draco_ we’re talking about,” Theo says, his tone astounded. “He never has a bad day.”

“Oh, don’t be so bloody stupid,” Pansy says sharply, curling her arm tighter around Draco, pulling him against her chest.

He feels weak, now resting most of his weight against Pansy’s tiny form and he wonders how she can even keep them both upright.

“We all have bad days,” Pansy repeats, brushing his damp fringe from his forehead. “What the fuck, love,” Pansy whispers against his forehead.

Draco grunts, allowing himself a few more moments in Pansy’s embrace before he catapults towards the toilet. When his hands once again grip the rim, he heaves a heavy sigh and clears his throat.

“Fuck,” he rasps out.

“Yes, but you’re okay,” Pansy says.

“Sorry,” Draco mutters, after a moment.

“You’re okay,” Millie reaffirms in a whisper.

“Well, I for one, still want to know what the hell is going on,” Theo says despite Pansy and Millie’s indignant cries. He crouches next to Draco, his long dark brown hair falling into his face as his gaze assesses Draco. “I’ve never seen you like this before. What’s happened, you wild bugger?”

“Nothing,” Draco groans.

His friends are only vaguely aware that he’s developing feelings for Harry, which they strongly advised against. And they know absolutely nothing about the Flint family’s possible connection to crimes within the Ministry or the dossier of horrors that came from pillaging their house.

“Bollocks if I’ve heard such a thing before,” Theo retorts. “Pull yourself together, old man. Here,” Theo says, rising up from his squatted position to dig into his front pocket. He pulls out a snuff bullet similar to the one Draco has kept locked away in his briefcase for weeks now. “Take a hit off this and talk to us rationally.”

Draco waves him off. “Get that out of my face.” He hasn’t dabbled in that since they robbed Grimmauld Place and he’d rather keep it that way.

“Theo! Leave him alone!” Pansy screeches, her hand also batting him away.

“Yeah, babe, back off,” Millie says.

Draco suddenly recalls that moment he stood before the bannister at _The Pearl_ in Diagon Alley during his mother’s orphan's benefit. He had wanted to jump and end things then, and if he could, he’d definitely do it right now.

“Harry,” Draco croaks.

“What about Potter?” Theo asks, his tone bordering on disgust.

“Did Potter say something to you?” Pansy asks, her tone pressing. “Tell me now, what did that miserable bastard say?”

“No, he didn’t do...say anything. At least not today,” Draco says voice hoarse as he lifts a hand to flush away the gross contents of the toilet. When he does, he shakes Pansy off of him, rising to his feet to head towards the sink, Theo watching him through narrowed eyes. “I...I’m distancing myself from him. It was all a misunderstanding, really.” The misunderstanding being that Harry seems to believe Draco is worthy of his love. “And…” He wants to admit everything that he’s been hiding from them, but he can’t. He refuses to burden his friends with the madness that he’s attracted into his life.

“And what?” Theo snaps.

Draco swallows, his throat tightening as fear once again twists low in his already cramping belly.

“Millie has the Cloak,” Pansy confesses, her hands clenched into balls on either side of her elegant, pale green maxi dress. Millie huffs in the background. “She’s supposed to give it to me next, but I’ll give it to you, Draco. I don’t need it anymore.”

Theo hums, low and acquiescing. “Is that it? We don’t. Not if you need it more.”

“Thank you,” Draco says before turning on the faucet to wash his mouth out once more with water.

Pansy places a quelling hand on his elbow, pulling out her wand from her frilly red thigh-holster to hit him with a minty, refreshing cleansing charm.

“Are you going to tell us what this was all about?” she asks, replacing her wand.

“Potter and I,” Draco says, drawing in a shaky breath, “are just at odds with one another. I told you I’m on the case for the break-ins. Everything has been fine thus far, but Potter is—”

“Falling in love with you?” Millie says knowingly, a pensive look crossing her face, as a smile tugs at the corners of her lips. “I’m not surprised. I mean, look at you.”

“Draco,” Pansy starts enquiringly. “Is she right about Potter?”

“ _Of course_ , this is about bloody Potter! When is it not about that dickhead!” Theo says with a roll of his eyes. “If you’re going to give us up, Draco, best be in a way where we’re all thrown into the same cell in Azkaban. I’d hate to be without my Mills.”

“No one is going to Azkaban!” Pansy cries, her voice laced with panic. “Draco…we’re not going to Azkaban, are we?”

Draco lifts his head to stare at his reflection. For a moment he’s confused—the man in the mirror morphs and shifts. Draco sees Lucius.

He shakes his head.

“No one is going to Azkaban,” he promises before tossing a handful of water against the mirror.

**\---**

Draco is finally able to shake off his friends once they leave the loo, taking several minutes to convince Pansy that he just needs a moment alone, roaming the Abbott property to catch his breath. His peace and quiet is short-lived, however, when Bitty taps him on his shoulder.

They’re standing near an ornate, decorated gazebo, the fairy lights glowing in the burgeoning dark of the early evening.

“Draco. I’ve been looking for you this entire evening,” Bitty whispers, stepping into his personal space, half of her bottom lip caught between her teeth as she gazes up at him.

In the dim shadows, Draco can see a slight dusting of white powder at the corner of her left nostril, a telltale sign that Theo is now supplying Bitty. Draco will have to pull him aside later to give him a firm talking to about the kind of nutters he’s now associating with.

He sighs, still dizzy and sluggish from the alcohol. “What do you want?”

Bitty lifts a hand to wrap around his left forearm. “I need to talk to you—things have been so hard. I don’t know what to do—I don’t know what to do anymore, and I’m scared, Draco, so scared,” she says, her voice brimming with paranoia as she repeatedly glances over her shoulder as if someone is looking in on them.

“Scared of what?”

Bitty laughs. “This! Here! Us!” she says, gesturing around her. “You of all people should know how hard it is to succeed in this community. But I see you’re pulling away from it all,” she whispers, the laugh dying in her throat. “I still need you to be a part of my life, though.”

Draco takes a small step back, uncomfortable. Bitty’s grasp falls away as he folds his arms against his chest. “You’re my best mate’s fiancée and my soon to be sister-in-law, I’m a part of your life enough.”

“But don’t you remember what it was like waking up together? Or how passionate we were together that night? Don’t you miss it? Don’t you ever think about it?” she asks, her voice quickening as her eyes flash with a manic gleam. “We were so good together. It was so, so good. You could have that again, even better this time because—”

“It was a mistake,” Draco interrupts. His shoulders curl inward as his stomach tightens.

“It wasn’t a fucking mistake!” Bitty bites back, sounding petulant. Her nostrils flare. “It was perfect! It was beautiful!”

“And we never should have done it,” Draco hisses.

He tries not to shout at her, genuinely confused, taken aback by her behaviour, and the fact that his head is pounding. He still feels a bit slow with alcohol despite vomiting up most of it. After everything he’s been through tonight, the last few days, hell, the last few years, he does not need this shit tonight.

He spins on his heel, needing to put as much distance between them as possible right now, when Bitty blurts out, “Blaise was jealous! He was jealous, and not for the reasons you think, and it just made me realise that we need you, Draco! We need you so much!”

Draco turns back around slowly, desperately trying to control his anger. He doesn’t want to hex her, despite his wand hand flexing, so he shoves both hands into his trouser pockets.

“Bitty. I’m not interested in any more of your wild proclamations. It’s been a shit day and I’m ready to head home now. Go back to Blaise.”

Bitty rushes up to him then, throwing her arms around his neck as she rests her head against his chest.

“I don’t have time for this—” Draco exclaims, trying to tug her arms from around his neck. He stumbles back when she holds on tighter.

“Bitty.”

Draco freezes, as does Bitty.

Bitty sighs, her breath tickling the underside of Draco’s jaw as she peers up at him. “I didn’t say anything wrong,” she whispers before backing away from him.

When she reaches Blaise, he tries to wrap his arms around her waist, but she pushes his hands away several times before he can enclose a hand around one of her wrists. She begins to giggle.

“Oh, Mr Big Man is here now,” she says, swinging side-to-side in Blaise’s grasp before he tugs her cackling form against his side.

“I told you to stop following him around,” Blaise says quietly.

She laughs. “You’re just a big cock attached to a little man, Blaise, do you know that? You like to pretend you’re so put together, so perfect, but no one knows just how often I have to suffer your insecurities. I don’t know what we’re doing anymore.”

Draco takes a step back from them, nearly falling in his sluggish state. He’s shocked by Bitty’s words and even more so by the mortified look now clouding Blaise’s face as he fixes his gaze on Draco.

“I don’t think I should be here,” Draco says.

His comment goes unheard by the couple. Bitty wrenches herself free from Blaise’s grasp.

“I don’t know what we’re doing together anymore, either – why don’t you go back to play in the snow, you wreck?” Blaise says, flicking her nose with a finger.

She stomps her foot. “I’ll do exactly that and we both know just how eager Theo will be to supply me again! Merlin knows I need to dull my senses to be around you!” she snaps. “You’re just jealous—jealous that I can have my fun and you can’t!” She cackles. “I’m not afraid to flirt with someone I find attractive!”

Blaise scrubs his face with a hand, his shoulders drooping. “This is unbecoming of someone who’s supposed to be the future Mrs Zabini,” he says, tilting his head back to assess her.

“I don’t care! If you cared so much about me, or my family, you would be on _my_ side about things! You would understand what I have to do to protect my family.”

Blaise shakes his head in disbelief. “What have I done? You really are a spoiled, sick little child, aren’t you?” Blaise says coolly before turning towards Draco. “Isn’t she just a sick little girl, Draco?”

“Blaise, I don’t—”

“What is this?” Blaise chuckles humorlessly. “Do you want her or something? Why is it every time we’re around each other, you seem to gravitate towards her?”

At his question Draco pauses, his mouth sliding open in shock. They both stare at him, gazes sharp and heated, waiting for his response.

“ _What?_ N-no, Blaise, what—”

“You can have her, if you want her. You’re what she wants.”

Bitty advances towards Blaise then, a furious look on her face. “He’s what _we_ want,” she corrects.

Draco takes another step back as once again Blaise tries to wrap an arm around Bitty.

“Stop it, Blaise!” Bitty hisses, fiercely pushing his hands away. She then jumps up and slaps Blaise, hard, across the cheek. “You’re _weak_ ,” she spits. “You can’t even muster the strength to tell him the truth.”

“I should’ve left you and your pathetic family to rot in Italy,” Blaise hisses, his dark eyes fiery as a scowl splits across his face as he massages his cheek. “No one would know a single thing about your family or that poisonous cunt of yours if it weren’t for _me._ ”

Draco gasps at Blaise’s cruel words, but before he can say anything himself, Bitty is launching herself at Blaise once more.

“That’s not true!” Bitty cries out, her hand posed to slap Blaise once more, but this time he catches her wrist and holds her steady.

“You know it’s true. Why else would your pathetic father be in business with rubbish like Marcus and Edward Flint?” Blaise scowls down at her, shaking her wrist. “Think for a minute, my darling! Are you so determined to climb the social ladder that you’re blind to the impact the whims and fancies of a gormless family like the Flints have on your family, or _mine_ for that matter? ” Blaise sneers, shaking his head as he let’s her go with a shove. “You Agnelli’s and your disgusting narcissism. You literally will follow anyone that’ll promise you your 15-minutes.”

Draco remains silent, instead hanging onto every single word coming out of Blaise’s mouth. It confirms that yes, there is a connection between the Flints and Agnelli’s, and Blaise is aware of it. If only Draco could find out the extent of their partnership...

“ _Non ducor, duco, fottuto bastardo!_ ” Bitty hisses.

“Of course you’d still believe that,” Blaise says, turning his attention back to Draco. “Do you hear the lovely words coming from my sweet future wife?” Blaise spits, his face twisted up as if he’s tasted something bitter.

“Blaise,” Draco rushes out, his voice urgent and as reassuring as he can make it. “You know there’s nothing between us anymore. I-I don’t want you, Bitty,” Draco says. He runs a hand through his hair, not sure what else to say.

“You did before. And you wanted Blaise, too,” Bitty insists.

“I don’t anymore. I don’t know what this is, but I know I want nothing to do with it,” Draco says, edging away from them once more.

He feels like he’s losing it. He’s losing the plot standing here being sucked into their bizarre argument.

“I happen to agree. We’re going home. _Now_ ,” Blaise all but growls as he reaches for Bitty.

“But the event is just starting to become fun!” Bitty whines, twisting her body away from Blaise. She pulls her long heavy hair over one shoulder, her eyes wide and glazed as she smiles at Draco. “We’re supposed to have so much fun tonight. I don’t want to fight. Never that.”

“What the fuck is wrong with you? With _both_ of you?” Draco asks, his eyes widening as Bitty does a twirl.

He wonders if Bitty is having a nervous breakdown, her erratic behaviour making him feel both afraid and incredibly sympathetic. He looks towards Blaise in concern, but the other man is glaring at Bitty, his lips pursed.

“Excuse my spoiled brat of a fiancée, Draco. She’s been in Theo’s infamous stash lately, but I'm sure you know how that goes,” Blaise drawls, his lips now twisting into a cruel sneer. “Among all the other things you’ve been up to lately, obviously.”

Draco feels as if he’s been doused in ice-cold water, sobering him up immediately. He doesn’t move as Blaise, and now a still Bitty, smiles knowingly at him.

 _They know!_ Draco’s mind screams. _How much do they know?_

“I don’t know what you mean,” Draco says, mustering up the strength to shoot them both a withering look.

“It’s okay, Draco,” Blaise murmurs, his gaze heated as it bores through Draco. “You don't have to worry about hiding it from me anymore. I will admit though, I was quite hurt to learn that you kept such a huge secret like that from _me_ of all people.”

“Your secret is safe with us,” Bitty adds in a sweet tone, finally curling her hand around Blaise’s. “I promise we won’t hurt you, Draco. But can you say the same for your other friends?”

Bitty turns her nose up. “Blaise,” Bitty starts, turning to face him. “Darling, I’m so sorry for hitting you. I was caught in the moment. You know how I get, my love. I shouldn’t become so angry so fast when you suggest the right course of action. You’re so very right to think we should go home now.”

Blaise finally breaks his eye contact from Draco to nod at Bitty.

“We’ll be seeing you around, Draco,” Blaise says with a nod.

Draco watches as Blaise and Bitty make their way through the garden’s pathway towards the party. Overwhelmed and confused, he finds himself stumbling towards the gazebo, his hands reaching out as he eases himself down onto the nearest edge. His hands cover his mouth and he squeezes his eyes shut and swallows in a desperate attempt to wrest away a fresh wave of nausea.

\-----

Draco uses his shoulder to push open his front door, nearly falling to the ground as he trips over his own feet. He slams the door shut behind him, his head swimming as he toes off his shoes and tosses his jacket onto the sofa.

But the jacket lands on the floor. Sluggish from his nausea, his headache, and the overwhelming sense of dread in his body, Draco pulls out his wand to turn the lights on in his dark townhouse.

He gasps. Everything in his lounge room has been ransacked— the upholstery torn, books pulled down from its shelves, tables and chairs overturned. The smell of cigarette smoke and something else, a sharp, spicy scent his muddled brain can’t quite place, permeates the air. Panicked and trembling, Draco stumbles from the lounge room down the hall, wand at the ready. The pictures on the walls are askew and the furniture also overturned.

“SPRINKLES!” Draco cries out, opening each door to reveal an equally sacked room. “SPRINKLES, darling, where are you?”

He can feel a pressure building up his throat, his eyes burning as he searches frantically for his new companion. He’d be devastated if something happened to her.

He runs up the stairs to his office.

This room has suffered the most damage. The furniture is torn to pieces, the cushions split open and stuffing pulled out, as if the perp believed Draco had hidden something there. But in addition, there are scorch marks on the walls and floors. The middle of Draco’s desk has a pile of ashes on it, any picture or documents that had been set on top destroyed.

If this perp was in search of the Flint dossier, they failed. Draco got rid of it two days ago.

Draco hears a whimper, and out from behind an overturned file cabinet comes Sprinkles, her head bowed and tail wagging low. Draco cries out in relief, sinking to his knees as his arms wrap around the small puppy. He lets her lick his face.

“Merlin, girl, I thought you were a goner,” he chokes out.

He begins to scratch her behind the ears as he looks around the room again. They’ll need to leave immediately. Draco doesn’t want to risk whomever this was coming back in the middle of the night.

Then something catches Draco’s gaze— something stuck onto the wall above his fireplace. He gets to his feet, Sprinkles still cradled to his chest. He nearly drops her as his blood runs icy cold through his veins.

There, posted on the wall are a series of unmoving images of Draco standing in Edward Flint’s office, going through his items, and finally finding the cubby hole. The most chilling image is a Polaroid of Draco’s and his mother. It’s an image snapped while he was at lunch with her just last week, the superb lobster bisque he thoroughly enjoyed that afternoon sat before him, a smile on his mother’s face as she enjoyed her own. Both of their names are scribbled legibly at the bottom alongside a date: 31 July.

Today is the 15th of July.


	8. Chapter 8

_Leave me out with the waste_

_This is not what I do_

_It's the wrong kind of place_

_To be thinking of you_

_It's the wrong time_

_For somebody new_

_It's a small crime_

_And I've got no excuse_

_Is that alright?_

**9 Crimes/Damien Rice**

That following Monday Draco calls off work.

What he’s feeling scares him. It scares him so much that he finds himself curled into a tight ball in the centre of his childhood bed, now back at Malfoy Manor, elbows tucked close to his body with a clenched fist pressed against his mouth to quiet his anguished staccato sobs. He hasn’t cried in such a long time, the sound is almost foreign to his ears as the muscles in his throat and face contort in an unfamiliar fashion. At his first choked sob, Sprinkles hops onto the bed, resting her head atop Draco’s knee. It helps the ball of prickly pain ease away, and he finds himself scooping up the thin dog, holding her to his chest as she makes a small whimpering noise and slots her snout between the space where his shoulder and neck meet.

Merlin. This dog he stole away has become his only true friend.

Pansy, Blaise, Millie, Theo have always been there for him in some way and somewhere in the recesses of mind he knows they’re loyal, but it hurts to think he’s unable to turn to them about this. He’s not afraid that they’d betray him, despite what Bitty and Blaise may imply. He’s experienced betrayal before, from his parents about their warped supremacy views, the Pureblood community with their thinly-veiled supremacy, from his co-workers and their hatred for him, from his Father's hatred for _him_. But he refuses to add to the list someone within his own inner circle.

The gross irony isn’t lost on him in this situation. Draco has been robbing homes for months, and now someone has invaded his home. He feels stupid that he had not considered that these Purebloods would wisen up and employ Muggle technologies to track their assailant. This person has threatened Draco’s life, fully aware of his antics at the Flint house. He has no one to turn to. It’s too dangerous to involve his friends, going to the Ministry would be like walking into an actual fire while dragging his Mother along, and coming forward to Harry would mean confessing to the break-ins and possibly angering the person who has threatened him.

Draco has found himself trapped in a box. Even with the dossier gone, the perpetrator _knows_ that Draco’s aware of it, their method of threat proving so. The only thing to do now is protect his mother at all cost, and try to shift as much of the threat onto himself.

 _Look at the chaos you’ve yet again allowed into your miserable little life,_ a tiny voice whispers in the back of Draco’s mind. The voice sounds like Lucius. 

All the lies, the robberies, the bloody murders and conspiracies...Draco is surely on his way to Azkaban if he steps forward. Or, more optimistically, the Janus Thickey Ward.

Draco hugs Sprinkles tighter to his chest as he closes his eyes, willing sleep to sweep him away.

\-----

When he rouses from his sleep, there are two owls pecking at his window. Draco checks his watch on his bedside table and is immediately annoyed with himself for sleeping half-past two in the afternoon. When he lets the tiny Ministry owl and Pansy’s eagle, Alkina, in, Draco recognises Harry’s spidery scrawl on the front of the three-folded parchment. He detaches both the letter and the pristine-wrapped package from Alkina before letting them both back out without treats.

He unfolds the parchment carefully, his heart in his throat.

> _Draco,_
> 
> _I don’t want easy...ever with you. Whatever that means for you, I’m okay with it as long as you’re somehow in my life at the end of it. I miss you._
> 
> _Yours,_
> 
> _Harry_

Draco rereads the letter seven more times before he folds it up and places it in the drawer of his bedside table. An incredible weight shifts onto his shoulders. It’s damining, this feeling of complete fear and helplessness that’s consumed him these past couple of months. He doesn’t know what to think about anything that’s happening in his life that’s quickly spiraling out of control. He especially doesn’t know what to think about the feelings that are growing for Harry. He knows that he made the right choice recently in putting his trust in Harry, and it hasn’t failed him yet.

Draco moves to open Pansy’s parcel. A quick search comes up with no letter attached to the brown wrapping—Harry’s Cloak of Invisibility.

\----

It’s not long after receiving Harry’s letter, that Draco is once again in Harry’s company. He has a fortnight for whatever promised hell to come raining down on him. Beaten down and scared out of his wits, he tries not to overthink the overwhelming comfort he finds in Harry’s embrace.

“I’m really sorry,” Harry starts, a frown gracing his lips. “I didn’t mean to make you feel pressured. I don’t expect you to just jump into a relationship with me.”

Draco pauses, Harry’s words sinking in. He sighs. “I know you’re not trying to pressure me into anything, Harry. I just...I just want to be honest with you. I don’t even know what it means anymore to be someone’s boyfriend. I want to be with you, but we have to go slow, whatever that looks like. I want to figure it out because I do have feelings for you.”

If there’s at least one aspect of their relationship—friendship—that can be based on the truth, it’s this. Draco’s unsure, and he’s afraid to open himself up to another person, especially Harry. Not when the other man deserves more than what Draco can offer him—he deserves someone stable, someone whole. Someone who isn’t embroiled in several schemes, conspiracies and vigilantism all at once, and can look him in the eyes without feeling overwhelming guilt.

“I know. If you let me, Draco, I’ll be here for you.”

Draco laughs; it’s weak. “I don’t know why.”

“You’re so hard on yourself and you shouldn’t be. Believe me when I say that you’re worth spending time with and you’re definitely worth waiting for.”

“And what if I can never come around?” Draco asks quietly. “What if I can’t be the perfect boyfriend you need me to be?”

“I never said I wanted perfect, Draco. No one is perfect. I just want _you_ , as you are. Flaws and all because that’s what makes you so unbelievably amazing. As long as I have you in my life—if I can hold you, like this,” Harry laces his fingers with Draco’s. “And kiss you like this,” he presses a kiss to Draco’s lips. “I’m happy. I don’t need to label what we do and how we spend our time together, as long as we can continue to spend our time together.”

The increased heavy weight Draco’s been carrying in the centre of his chest since the weekend eases a bit. He’s shocked to realise just how much he _missed_ being this close to Harry, how he missed being able to touch him like this. Both naked, after making love for the first time, with his right leg draped across Harry’s hip, one hand clasped in Harry’s, the other curled in Harry’s hair. As they lapse into silence, the bedroom becomes quiet outside of Harry’s soft breathing, his eyes now closed, as his thumb rubs soothing circles into the side of Draco’s hand. He suddenly lifts their clasped hands up to his lips, pressing a kiss to Draco’s knuckles. Draco smiles and uses his draped leg to tug Harry closer, even though they are pressed tightly together. Harry grins at the movement and his eyes open once again.

The look Draco sees there is all he needs to put aside every single reason why he shouldn’t accept his feelings for this man.

He’s in love with Harry Potter.

Draco leans in to kiss him, trying to put into it the words he’s incapable of saying aloud: _I want you. I want this. I need us._

Draco selfishly figures that if he’s to be murdered in two weeks, the least he can do is make sure these last two weeks are the best of his life.

\----

Draco hasn’t even had his coffee yet when Andrews comes barging into his office Tuesday morning.

“We need a warrant, Malfoy, to investigate that friend of yours, Nott, for Dark artefacts,” Andrews demands, looking around the office with a slight sneer.

Draco sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. He’s been over this with Andrews before. He’s kept this bit of information from his friend, afraid to send Theo into a panic. He suspects that Theo’s opened his fat mouth about the robberies if he’s to believe Bitty and Blaise. He can’t imagine what Theo would do if he found out some of the Aurors in the break-in case wanted to finger him as a suspect because of his family’s history. Draco has explained to Andrews and his little crew of supporters that Theo’s estate, which rightly had the largest number of Dark objects pre-war, had everything removed even before the debris settled over Hogwarts after the battle. Despite this explanation, Andrews continues to mention to every Auror who’ll listen his suspicions, and Draco is tired of providing proof to the team that his friend is clean. He already has a massive headache blossoming and Andrew’s voice is just increasing the pressure building up in Draco’s head.

“Do you have the proper forms and Potter’s signature?” Draco asks, sitting back in his chair.

Andrews glares at him. “I thought you had carte blanche over these things?”

“No, Andrews. I thought I mentioned to you before that there's a procedure to follow in this establishment, especially if I allow you to go pillage someone’s bloody home,” Draco snaps. “Now, is that all you’ll be needing from me today?”

“At every turn in this case, you’ve blocked me from doing my job,” Andrews accuses. “Harry may have his head up his arse about you, but I don’t. It’s almost as if you don’t want us to save you and your sorry arse Pureblood community!”

“Ah. You’re quite mistaken, Andrews,” Draco starts, resting his elbows on his desk and glancing at him with a furrowed brow over his now steepled fingers. “I’m all for interrogations and searches if the reasons behind them are valid and done through the proper channels. Your attempt at strong-arming me into violating Theo’s civil liberties will not get this case solved.”

Andrews approaches Draco’s desk, planting both hands on the surface before leaning in.

“You think you’re safe here, but you’re not. Your days are numbered, Malfoy. We all know one of these days you’re going to fuck up, and when you do, Merlin, will you go down hard,” Andrews sneers in a low, threatening hiss.

Draco catches a whiff of cloves.

That night comes rushing back to Draco then, slamming into his mind’s eye like a wayward train—his townhouse torn to pieces, Sprinkles whimpering and cowering behind a cabinet, and a peculiar mixture of smells... cigarettes and clove.

Andrews is the one that broke into his house.

Draco reins in his emotions. He can feel the anger and fear bleed from out of him as he stares blankly at Andrews.

“Even if that day does come, Andrews, it won’t be _you_ bringing me down. Now get the fuck out of my office before I hex you into the next millenium,” Draco says in a low, grave tone.

Andrews shakes his head, stepping back from Draco’s desk to leave.

“You weak piece of shit,” he spits before throwing open the door.

Harry is standing there.

“Scott.” Harry inclines his head backwards, his lips pursing.

“Harry,” Andrews says, flinching. “I didn’t know you were coming down here.”

“Why would you?” Harry drawls, stepping around Andrews to enter the room. “Do you need anything?”

“Oh, er, no.”

“Great. Then I’ll see you for our 3 o’clock. Don’t be bloody late again,” Harry says, his hand on the doorknob.

“Right,” Andrews says, stepping out into the corridor as Harry shuts the door.

When Harry faces Draco, he notices the lidded cup of coffee in Harry’s hand, the other rubbing the back of his neck, a sheepish smile blossoming across his face. “Sorry, he’s a bit of an arse, isn’t he?” The smile slips from Harry’s face. “Merlin, you look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Draco sits up straighter, the delayed, cold wave of shock rushing through him. He takes a deep breath.

“I’m fine! And that’s the understatement of the year,” Draco responds, forcing a small smile onto his lips. “Nothing I can’t handle.”

Harry seems to accept this and he takes the last few steps to the front of Draco’s desk.

“Er, I, uh, brought you a coffee. Cream with three sugars. I know you have a sweet tooth,” Harry says, holding out the cup.

Draco takes it from him.

“Thank you,” he says, taking a grateful sip before setting it down. It’s made perfectly. “Why don’t you sit down?” Draco asks, gesturing to one of the seats.

Harry shakes his head. “Nah. I’m on a tight schedule. I just wanted to drop that off for you.”

Draco’s touched by his kindness. He’s suddenly struck with an insane idea—somehow, as soon as possible, he’s going to return Harry’s Cloak of Invisibility himself before the proverbial shit hits the proverbial fan. It will be his way of repentance.

“Well, I’ll let you get back to it, then. Can I, er, see you later?” Harry asks, a hopeful look crossing his face.

“I’ll meet you in the canteen for lunch around 1 o’clock,” Draco says with a nod.

The grin he receives from Harry is blinding and it stirs that old familiar swarm of butterflies in the pit of his stomach.

“Brilliant. Enjoy that coffee, and I’ll see you then.”

When the door clicks shut, Draco runs a hand through his hair, adrenaline rushing through him.

Andrews broke into his townhouse. A trained Auror would know how to dismantle wards, even wards as new as the ones on the Malfoy townhouse. They were updated just a year ago and there’s no blood or ancestral magic on the townhouse like there is on Malfoy Manor. If Andrews is indeed the one that broke into his home, his request for a warrant could be a ploy to investigate Theo and somehow find probable cause to investigate Draco and pin all the burglaries on him. Or, as Draco believes is happening, Andrews might be working for Flint and desperately seeking the dossier that Draco stole.

Draco closes his eyes, slouching in his seat and resigning himself to the fact that he’s quickly losing control, now that Andrews is another layer to an already complex situation.

\----

His mother begins the preparations for the annual Pre-Débutante Jewell Party, which involves her traveling back and forth from Dany’s to Malfoy Manor. To be on the safe side, Draco closes up his London townhouse indefinitely, and urges Narcissa to spend her time with Dany as much as possible. As a high-powered figure, Dany is always surrounded by security, and her own house is heavily warded to hell and back, just like the Manor. Surprised by his sudden desire to be in his ancestral home, Draco’s convinced his mother that he just needs to get in some fresh country air before the Season is over. Even though his mother has kept him away from the party planning and the remodelling happening within the Manor, he doesn’t complain, as this provides him the opportunity to hide Sprinkles in one of the many rooms of the Manor when she’s around. He feels safer than ever with the ancient wards surrounding the house and the movement of several house elves cleaning, cooking, and generally checking in on his wellbeing. It’s one week to the end of July. He doesn’t know how he’s keeping it all together: going to work (even though he’s dragging his feet on the case), seeing Harry regularly, seeing his friends, preparing for his next Society event, all while knowing someone is going to try to kill him _and_ his mother in a week.

But he carries on, a sort of numbness washing over him. He doesn’t quite feel like he’s in his body anymore. He’s simply going through the motions of living and taking small pleasure despite the multiple threats against him. He knows that he’s not a hundred percent present, that he’s a whispered word away from a nervous breakdown. He’s starting to carry his snuff bullet around again. He doesn’t use it, not yet anyway. But it’s always on him...reminding him that in a split second, if the feelings he’s been stamping down threaten to resurface too quickly and overwhelmingly, the magical Muggle drug will stop it.

This year’s tantalising theme for the pre-Debs ball is _All Pink and_ _Oceanic_ , whatever the fuck that means. Draco’s donned a pale pink three-piece suit, the first few buttons of his white dress shirt undone, with a gold starfish brooch pinned to the left lapel. He’s miffed to find that the tassel from the left shoe of his Louboutins is missing, and he eyes Sprinkles warily as he finishes the final touches to his outfit.

“You damned little creature! If I find that tassel chewed up somewhere it’s to the animal shelter with you,” he says, annoyed, tossing the shoe out into the hallway.

She dutifully brings it back, dropping the shoe at his feet, tail wagging eagerly as she yelps at Draco for approval. He doesn’t have the heart to chastise her any further and instead scoops her up to spend a few moments rubbing her belly.

When he looks in the mirror, Draco realises that he hasn’t had a haircut in a while, what with the looming doom over him, so he slicks his slightly overlong locks back into a pompadour, just a few strands hanging across his forehead. He then heads down to the parlour to acquire a drink before heading down to the ballroom.

Draco’s happy that Narcissa won the Chairwoman role for the Jewell Ball Committee, besting Bitty’s potentially murderous mother in their popularity contest. Unlike the garden parties Draco’s attended this Season, Narcissa decided to hold the Pink Party in one of their newly-remodelled massive ballrooms with the wide terraces overlooking the Malfoy gardens, pool, and ponds. When he arrives at the party, an entire wall of the ballroom is made up of blossoming red, pale pink, hot pink, and white roses and peonies. Massive ice sculptures shaped as dolphins and seahorses adorn each corner of the room, and the chandeliers have a slight pink hue to them. Draco finds it all a bit much for his personal taste, but all in all, it’s not too bad for these coked-out débutantes.

As if reading his mind and being summoned, Bitty glides up to him, a large hot pink clutch under one arm. She’s donned a short, long-sleeved bubblegum pink dress that’s skin-tight and made of lace, a clunky black zipper down the front. Her choice of dress is quite unconventional compared to the ballgowns some of the other women are wearing. Draco would admire her nerve if he didn’t find her completely abhorrent.

“Merlin. You look glorious, Draco,” she says, her eyes roaming over him. “Pink is definitely your colour.”

“I agree,” Blaise says, coming from behind Draco, dressed in a flattering velvet hot pink tuxedo jacket with black lapels and pressed, bespoke black trousers. “One would think such a pale hue would wash you out, but you do look very...ravishing,” Blaise says with a wolfish grin, looping his arm around Bitty’s waist.

Standing together like this, peaceful and content, they look like the perfect couple, but Draco has been privy to the darkness lurking beyond that exterior.

“Right. Thank you,” Draco says, waiting for an insult to come. When they continue to smile, he scowls. “I’m not interested in whatever it is you two want.”

“Merlin. If one more Botoxed bitch in a pink dress asks me when I’m going to get married, I’ll explode!” hisses Pansy’s voice in his ear.

Startled, Draco turns to his left to see her standing there in a sleeveless, silk fuchsia scoop neck empire waist gown, her short bob styled in elegant, swooping finger waves. She grimaces when she notices Blaise and Bitty are standing before him.

“You look pretty. What’s a botox?” Draco asks, trying to latch onto Pansy.

“Thank you,” Pansy says, resting a hand on his shoulder. “And I’ve told you this before, darling, you must get on the Internet. Botox is all the rage amongst some of the women and men in our quaint community,” Pansy chastises teasingly and at odds with the cold gaze she has fixed on Bitty and Blaise. “You both look lovely,” she says as blandly as commenting on the weather.

“Oh, thank you! So do you,” Bitty exclaims in her throaty saccharine voice, a hand tucking into the crook of Blaise’s elbow, her engagement ring glinting in the bright light of the ballroom.

Pansy’s icy gaze doesn’t let up.

“And you, Draco, you look gorgeous as usual,” Pansy says. “Best dressed man here.”

“Where’s your boyfriend?” Blaise suddenly asks Draco, ignoring Pansy.

“I see you’ve been listening to gossip,” Draco quips.

It’s true that Draco’s been spending more time out in Diagon Alley and Muggle London with Harry lately, and much to his chagrin, he’s been photographed once or twice when he’s grabbed lunch or a coffee with him.

“He’s not my boyfriend,” Draco says, a part of him sorely regretting that fact. “Though, I did invite him to this monstrosity of an event. Alas, he can only deal with Pureblood snobbery in small doses.” Draco plucks a flute of champagne from the tray of a passing waiter.

“Then how on earth does he put up with you?” Blaise teases.

“Oh, ha-ha,” Draco says. “I only come to these events for the free drinks, not because I care about any of this rubbish.”

“You say this even though this is your own mother’s event?” Bitty asks, a faux-shocked expression on her face.

Draco’s distaste for her increases ten-fold.

At this, Pansy rolls her eyes. “Darling, I must be going. You know since I’m co-sponsoring the event, I must make rounds,” Pansy says pompously (Draco knows it’s mostly to irritate Bitty and check him), tugging him down slightly to kiss his cheek. “Try to have fun and,” Pansy pauses and glances over her shoulder to Bitty and Blaise, “Try to stay out of trouble.”

Draco smiles and kisses her back on the cheek. “Will do. Enjoy, and congrats.”

When Pansy leaves, Bitty steps in a bit closer. “Let’s drink to her success, shall we?” Bitty says, lifting the flap of her clutch to flash a small flask. “It appears your mother only allowed champagne at this event, but Blaise and I fancied ourselves some gin.”

Blaise circles behind her, that wicked grin once again flashing across his face.

“In what fucking universe would you think I’d want to drink with you?” Draco asks slowly.

After their encounter at the Abbott’s garden party, Draco doesn’t think he can trust being alone with Bitty and Blaise anymore. They’re too unstable, and with Draco and his mother’s life on the line, too bloody dangerous. Draco doesn’t want to get swept into whatever mess the couple will find themselves relishing in tonight.

“What are you going to do? Go hang around Theo, the man who can’t keep your secret about breaking into your ex’s home?” Bitty replies snidely.

Draco winces, his suspicions about Theo being the rat and the extent of their knowledge now confirmed.

“Yes. Whatever did you do with the dog?” Blaise asks.

“Don’t be such a big baby!” Bitty starts again. “So we had one little minor disagreement. You’re going to throw away our friendship just like that?”

“I wouldn’t call that omnishambles of a night a simple disagreement. It was more like harassment and gaslighting,” Draco snaps, flat out ignoring Blaise’s question.

Bitty suddenly looks troubled, a frown gracing her pretty face as she looks up at Blaise before gazing back at Draco. “We’re so sorry. Like I said that night, Draco, we don’t want to hurt you. We’ll never hurt you.”

“She’s right,” Blaise agrees, with a nod. “I’m disappointed you’d even think I’d hurt you. Bitty and I are having our problems, but you, Draco, you’ve always been my brother. I’m sad you left me out of your antics.” Blaise scoffs. “As if Theo is the better alternative.”

Draco rubs his brow. He’s never heard Blaise refer to him like that before-- his _brother--_ and it surprisingly makes him feel happy to hear it. It was a collective decision to leave Blaise out of their activities. If Draco could get his hands on a Time-Turner, he’d go back to prevent all the robberies so there would be no need for secrets, and so he could go back to his state of silent anger about the world around him.

Draco’s known Blaise his whole life, but Bitty? He doesn’t trust her. With only one week left until whatever hell is planned for him to happen, perhaps he could glean some insight into whatever mess Bitty’s family is involved in by spending time with the Zabini’s tonight.

“Is that any good?” he asks, nodding towards her purse.

Bitty gives him a sultry smile. “It’s Watenshi, _The Japanese Angel_. The flask is connected to my family’s collection and I promise you, you’ll never taste gin this good.”

Draco searches their faces before peering at the crowd. Theo and Millie haven’t arrived yet, and Pansy, his mother, and Dany are swamped with Society ladies crowing over the decorations for the event. He’s alone and already knows that this event will be officially boring. No one will bother him. It’s the perfect opportunity to get lost in Blaise and Bitty’s world for a few hours.

“Well, let’s go out to the balcony for some privacy and a smoke,” Draco says, itching for a Muggle cigarette to calm his jittery nerves.

\-----

Draco fucks up.

He loses his suit jacket somewhere along the night, not that he cares, but that starfish brooch was worth a pretty Galleon. He doesn’t think twice about it when he finds himself in the middle of a Muggle club, pressed between Bitty and Blaise as they grind together to the beat of House music, something he recalls from his club-hopping with Pansy, Theo, and Millie. They keep dancing, keep drinking, and Bitty shoves her own personal snuff bullet in Draco’s hands in the middle of the club. It’s been so long since Draco’s indulged that taking pulls from the bullet feels like the warm embrace of a loving friend. They take pulls from it throughout the night, the supply seemingly endless.

He’s never had this much fun with them, ever. What was supposed to be a night of carefully and subtly interrogating Bitty and Blaise has turned into a night of debauchery. Draco lets it happen because the anxiety he’s been carrying around melts away with all the rest of his problems as he throws himself into the familiar, wide mouth of euphoria. He’s never felt so free.

He stamps down the tiny sliver of regret pooling in his stomach as they scramble out of a Muggle taxi, Bitty cackling, swimming in Blaise’s jacket draped over her shoulders. As Blaise pulls out Muggle dosh to pay the cabbie, Bitty grabs Draco’s hand and leads him to a front door, the wards recognising her. Draco’s only been to their Mayfair home a handful of occasions, and he’s not able to clearly see any of the furniture or portraits in the dim light, so he stumbles through the house behind her, his own euphoric laughter matching hers. This close, Draco watches with amusement as Bitty stumbles in her high heels, Blaise’s jacket sliding from her shoulders to land on the floor as her hips sway seductively in front of him. Draco finds the movement hypnotic, and he can’t peel his eyes away from her arse.

“Merlin, that was so much fun!” Bitty babbles, turning to peer back at him. “Wasn’t that fun, Draco? I told you it would be. Didn’t I tell you? You should listen to me more often. I always have the best suggestions. I tell Blaise this all the time, poor bastard finally gave in, though, didn’t he? I told him this’ll be a night he’ll never forget. Who knows, maybe we’ll even do this again!”

Draco’s head is spinning but he manages a grin in her direction. “No need to rub it in that you were right. You both know how to have a good time.”

“The fun is just starting,” she promises, leading Draco into a dark room before helping him sit down.

With a flick of her wand, the lights glow warm and amber, illuminating the large, tastefully-decorated bedroom.

Draco leans back onto the soft surface of the bed, one arm keeping him upright as he attempts to gather his wits about him. He takes several shaky breaths through a runny nose. When everything is still enough around him, he fumbles through his trouser pocket to pull out the snuff bullet. He holds one nostril down and snorts back the contents, smiling to himself at the familiar, comforting sensation of the acrid drip down his throat. He’s steady.

The soft murmur of voices draws him from his actions. Blaise and Bitty are standing a few feet away, their faces close together. Draco can see the wicked smile on Bitty’s face and the dark expression on Blaise’s. She giggles, and he watches through bleary eyes as Blaise suddenly wraps one large hand around Bitty’s thin neck, pressing his thumb right under her jaw to tilt her head up. With a low growl, he leans in to capture her mouth.

Bitty makes a sharp gasp against Blaise’s lips, her hands flying up – one coming to rest over the hand wrapped around her neck, the other to rest on Blaise’s shoulder as his free hand begins to unzip the front of her short dress.

Draco closes his eyes, swaying in his perched spot on the edge of the bed, his brain catching up to the scene unfurling before him. He can hear the sound of their frantic kissing, their soft moans, the brush of fabric against skin.

He’s starting to get hard.

When he pries open his eyes, Draco’s teeth sink into his bottom lip to bite back a groan. Blaise is now free of his shirt, his muscled torso glinting like precious stone in the low light and Bitty is standing in nothing but her lacy black knickers, supple breasts exposed, nipples erect. Draco finds that he can’t help his hand travelling down to press his palm against the heavy weight of his swelling cock.

Blaise breaks their kiss and presses his forehead against Bitty’s, his eyes fluttering shut. He hasn’t removed his hand from her throat and Draco can see that Blaise applies just a hint of added pressure to his grip, causing Bitty to gasp out and shiver and moan. Then Blaise’s hand falls away.

Bitty turns to face Draco, that playful smile of hers on her face once more. Draco’s eyes flit across her body. She is truly gorgeous, and he wants nothing more than to take one pert nipple into his mouth.

“Come here, Draco,” she demands in a low, throaty voice, her eyes alight.

Draco is suddenly reminded of that night with Harry, when Harry had asked him to join him on the floor. He had been so excited to wrap his arms around him, to kiss him deeply and indulge in the fantasy that he can be Harry Potter’s boyfriend one day. Draco shakes his head free from the memory, his heart racing as he realises just how quickly he’s lost control of tonight. He was right to keep Harry at arm’s length. Draco knows he’s not a good person, and will never be good enough for Harry.

He’s right where he should be.

His gaze once again falls on Bitty, thoughts of their first time together coming to mind, that same dark curl of forbidden yearning ensnaring him in her sweet clutches pulling him in now. He’s in front of her in seconds and watches in awe as her deft fingers begin to make quick work of unbuttoning his shirt. Her pupils are blown as she runs her hands up his chest and over his shoulders, pushing the thin material off to land on the floor. When her hand grazes the buckle of his belt, Blaise is back, tugging her hands away to spin her back towards him, his lips descending onto hers, heated and possessive.

Feeling brave, Draco presses himself against Bitty’s backside, a soft moan escaping him from the relief of his trapped cock pressing against the soft curve where her back meets her arse. He shifts her hair, exposing the nape of her neck to pepper soft kisses across her bare shoulder. When Draco glances up, Blaise’s onyx-coloured eyes are fixed on him, sparked with hunger.

Draco shivers.

Blaise steps back again, never breaking his gaze with him.

“Will you help me finish undressing her?” Blaise asks, his deep voice reverberating in the pit of Draco’s stomach.

All he can do is nod, his hands running up Bitty’s hips as she turns to face him once more. Her face is flushed, lips swollen and wet. Instead of pulling her knickers down, Draco takes a moment to slide his hands up her body, his fingertips caressing her hot flesh as he moves to knead her soft breasts. The small noises escaping from her are intoxicating and he can no longer wait. He slides his hand down into her knickers, his fingers dancing through the trimmed line of hair to push two fingers inside. They both groan, Bitty lifting onto the tips of her toes briefly, her hands grasping Draco’s shoulders like a lifeline. She’s so fucking wet _._

“My God,” Draco whispers, pulling his fingers out to spread the moisture over her clit to tease her in slow, lazy circles.

“Oh, _fuck_ ,” Bitty whimpers, her head falling against Draco’s chest. “Don’t stop.”

Draco flinches when he feels a rough, calloused hand run along his shoulder blades. His breathing quickens, surprised, as Blaise presses his hard chest against his back, his nose nudging against the shell of Draco’s ear before licking the sensitive patch of skin directly below it.

“Please don’t stop, Draco,” Blaise pants against his ear.

Draco’s mind begins to whirl—his heart slamming against his ribcage. Blaise has never touched him like this before and he’s so hard, it’s too much.

Bitty starts to quiver, her moans and cries growing louder as she rocks against Draco’s hand. Blaise is an omnipotent presence at his back now, beaconing and consuming, his fingers skating down Draco’s flanks, over his hip-bones exposed in his fitted trousers, to finally grasp his belt buckle. His fingers skilfully undo it along with the zipper. Draco gasps as Blaise pushes down his trousers and pants, hissing as his cock springs free. When Blaise squats behind him, tugging them down all the way to his ankles, his wide hands begin to knead Draco’s arse. Draco’s heart feels like it’s about to explode. Bitty comes then, falling against Draco’s chest just as Blaise nips and licks a hot stripe up Draco’s left arse cheek.

“Merlin fucking Christ,” Draco swears, his whole body shaking.

He can’t control the shivers or rein in his thoughts as Bitty slowly sinks to her knees. Draco fixes his gaze on her, transfixed as she parts her full lips to wrap around the head of his cock.

His knees buckle as he cries out, but Blaise is once again pressed against him and Draco now realises that Blaise is completely naked, holding him around the chest to keep him upright, one hand teasing at his nipple. Draco is dizzy. He’s so dizzy with desire and overwhelmed by the overload of sensation that all he can do is curl his hands in Bitty’s hair as she swallows him down. He lets his head fall back onto Blaise’s shoulder and he gives into it all, let’s _go_ , let’s his wanton, wild moans and cries fill the space of the room as Bitty sucks him and Blaise plays with his nipples, sliding his long hard length between the globes of Draco’s arse, catching on his rim.

Blaise begins to scatter kisses up Draco’s neck, the hand that was playing with his nipple now gently brushing Draco’s hair from his forehead. Bitty suddenly glances up, and Draco doesn’t know if it’s because of seeing the two of them together, or maybe something in Blaise’s face, but she pulls away from Draco’s cock to crawl towards the bed.

“You’re so fucking beautiful like this,” Blaise purrs in Draco’s ear, gently manouvering him towards the bed as well. Once Draco is pressed against the high footboard, Blaise begins to set a slow, teasing pace as he slides his leaking, slippery cock between Draco’s arse. “Look at you. I’ve always wanted to see you like this _._ ” Blaise removes his hand from Draco’s hair and wraps it around the base of Draco’s cock to stroke him as Bitty climbs onto the bed to watch. “I’ve always wanted to fuck you, Draco _. Merlin._ Look at you. _Let me fuck you.”_

“ _Hhhnnnh_ ,” Draco whimpers as Blaise carefully positions him over the footboard. “Yes, Merlin, please, yes,” Draco says, spreading his legs apart.

Blaise pulls back, and he can hear the other man spitting before the head of his cock slowly breaches Draco’s body. His head drops forward, a low growl of pain-pleasure ripping from him as Blaise snaps his hips in quick, shallow movements.

“Oh, fuck,” Blaise moans before pressing his lips to the back of Draco’s neck. “Draco, oh God. Have you always been like this?” Blaise murmurs as he continues to push forward, and when he’s finally seated, his chest flush against Draco’s back, he places small kisses on the back of his neck. “You feel so good.”

That’s all Draco needs to come, having been on the precipice of it since sinking his fingers into Bitty. The cry that rips from him is raw, pulled from his very core as he slouches forward, fingers digging into the soft fabric of the footboard. He doesn’t have a moment to compose himself before Blaise is pulling his cock back and slamming into Draco, his hand coming up to grip Draco’s neck, turning his chin to kiss him. The position is awkward and painful but Draco moans in pleasure. Blaise’s tongue plunges into his mouth in such a filthy, greedy way, he can forgive the discomfort. The other man holds him up, eager to swallow up Draco’s cries and pants. Draco is so swept up in Blaise’s desire that he doesn’t even notice when Blaise starts coming, still pumping into Draco as if his life depends on it, grunting through his orgasm.

Blaise pulls out and quickly spins Draco around, his large hands on either side of Draco’s face, pulling him in to kiss him deeply, as if he’s pouring every ounce of himself into it. Draco’s dazed, breathless, crushed under the intensity of it as Blaise presses him against the footboard. But just as quickly as he grasped Draco, he releases him with a slight shove, Draco’s hands scrambling to grip the upholstered frame behind him to keep himself upright. He’s gulping in air, a wild feeling rushing through him as he gapes at Blaise, shocked, aroused, and confused all at once. With his lips tingling and lungs and arse burning, Draco begins to tremble as ice cold comprehension at the abrupt dismissal washes over him.

Blaise and him…that went too far.

Draco watches as Blaise saunters over to the nearest window to throw it open, letting in the late-evening summer air. He picks up his trousers and rummages through the pockets, pulling out a pack of cigarettes. Bitty sprawls out on her stomach on the bed, still in her knickers, grabbing and tipping back the flask of gin they had all shared earlier.

Draco’s stomach churns.

All of Bitty’s little glances, the crazy behaviour, the gaslighting, the subtle flirtation. It’s been luring Draco up to this very moment. They apologised to him and it had felt so real—Blaise called Draco his brother, his family, and it all makes Draco feel sick. Maybe in their own twisted way they meant what they said, but thinking about it now sounds absurd to Draco’s muddy brain.

Draco has never felt so stupid. He doesn’t know what any of this _means._ Why? Why would they want to do this to him, confuse and use him in this manner?

Still trembling, Draco begins to tug his pants and trousers back up, sorting himself and fastening them up with numb, fumbling fingers.

“I’m going to go,” Draco says in a shaky voice, looking around the floor for his shirt.

“Good idea,” Blaise says, voice tight.

He doesn’t bother to turn around to look at him. He continues staring out the open window, puffing on his cigarette. Draco looks over to Bitty and she shoots him a feral smile.

“Thank you, Draco. It’s an experience we’ll never forget. Blaise especially,” Bitty says, her voice as sweet as honey.

Draco’s gaze lands on Blaise again, his friend now standing with his shoulders rounded, a scowl on his face.

“Oh, don’t look like that, my love,” Bitty says as she sits up in bed, her voice a stony kind of cruelty at odds with her grinning face as she stares at Blaise. “You said it yourself now and before—you’ve always wanted to fuck him, too. Well darling, now you have. You’re welcome.”

Bitty’s laugh is sharp as it fills the room.

 _Fuck_. _They’re sick. Twisted. Demented,_ Draco thinks as he picks up his shirt, wiping away Blaise’s drying come as much as possible before donning it and heading towards the door, desperate to escape the charged energy of the room. He takes one final look over his shoulder, noticing the tense set of Blaise’s shoulders and the slight tremor in his hand as he brings his cigarette to his lips. Bitty’s laugh continues to ring in his ears once the door shuts behind him as he searches his pockets for the snuff bullet.

It’s _her_.

It’s always been _her_. She’s always had the control, not only over Draco, but Blaise as well. Draco wonders who else Bitty has been able to manipulate into getting exactly what she wants and when she wants.

Doing three snorts in quick succession, his hands tremble so much that he nearly drops the damned thing. When he feels a bit more grounded, he lets himself out of Blaise and Bitty’s flat.


	9. Chapter 9

_Distance makes the heart grow weak_

_So bad the mouth can barely speak_

_Except to those who hide their needs_

_And I have read the golden seal_

_That tells of how the seedlings feel_

_Reminds my heart what love can yield_

_By my only things are clear_

_Baby boy, I'm staying here_

_Lonely lonely, that was you_

_Lonely and so untrue_

_**Lonely Lonely/** _ **Feist**

Draco walks through the streets of London, arms wrapped around his body, gaze unseeing.

He doesn’t acknowledge just how much his feet hurt or how cold he is, having walked an hour from Mayfair. He doesn’t really notice his surroundings until he’s south of the River, the smell of engine exhaust and the oncoming of rain jolting him from his daze as he finds himself exiting an underpass. The Royal Vauxhall Tavern is directly in front of him.

Draco smiles as he pauses in his steps. He’s standing in front of Harry’s favourite pub. Rubbing his arms for warmth, he continues to stare at the large lone building on the corner, the small group of people outside laughing. He doesn’t want to go home just yet, can’t fathom the thought of crawling into bed all the way at the Manor feeling the way he does. He crosses the street.

When he finally makes it inside, he finds that he likes the high beams, the red and gold interior and the glittering lights. It’s busy, the music thumping in the centre of his chest, but it’s a welcome feeling as it overwhelms the ball of pain that’s been seated there since leaving Blaise and Bitty’s. Just one drink. One drink and a bit of noise to drown out the pain he’s feeling right now. But first he needs to make his way to the loo to wash his hands and splash some water across his face.

He makes his way through the crowd with his eyes trained forward on the signage for the toilets. Once in front of the mirror, he can’t believe how wretched he looks – eyes bloodshot, the tip of his nose runny and red, his shirt ruffled and stained. He can already see the start of a bruise on his neck. He runs a shaky hand through his hair, suddenly itching to use the bullet, but holds off in this space currently full of strangers. He sets out to do what he planned to instead.

“All right?”

Draco meets the gaze of a young sandy-haired man in the mirror. He’s handsome, with smiling brown eyes, his gaze appreciative as he watches Draco. The man’s smile is one that Draco would have easily fallen for had it not been directed at him tonight _._ Losing himself in a stranger isn’t going to pull him from the trenches of his anger and despair. He takes a deep breath.

“No. Just…no thanks,” Draco grunts back.

He looks at himself in the mirror once more before stepping away from the sink.

“Are you really going so soon?” the man presses, a hopeful eyebrow quirked.

“I’ve never been good at standing still,” Draco says back, his pulse thudding in the back of his throat as he makes his way out towards the bar.

There’s an empty spot at the bar near the stage that he makes a beeline to, slotting himself between the laughing and writhing bodies. The bass of the music once again quells the tight feeling of panic and sorrow in his chest as he waits for the bartender to notice him. The feeling of regret is all-encompassing and he finds himself taking small, measured breaths to calm himself. His thoughts unwittingly travel to Harry and that offers a bit of relief against his frayed nerves. He can see why Harry would like this place – it’s busy enough that he can lose himself in the space, safe enough that he can let his guard down and be himself, with more than enough smiling faces to be charmed by.

“Rough night?” comes a voice directly behind him.

He flinches, thinking the man from the loo has followed him out to the bar. His whole body becomes rigid as he leans to the side, desperate to put space between him and this unwanted stranger, but it’s Harry that’s squeezing himself beside Draco.

“You—what—how?” Draco stammers, eyes wide as he takes in Harry’s grin and vivid green eyes.

“You’re at _my_ haunt, so I reckon the real question is what are _you_ doing here?” Harry counters with a chuckle.

Draco deflates. All of the night’s tensions expel from his body like air from a balloon just from the reassuring sound of Harry’s laugh. He closes his eyes and sags forward, utterly spent as he falls against the other man.

Harry’s arms come up to wrap him into a hug. “Hey, now,” Harry starts, his tone gentle and teasing. “How much did you drink at that Pink Ocean thing tonight?”

Draco’s body gives a hard shudder without his permission and Harry’s grasp tightens.

“Draco, are you okay?” he asks, all traces of humour gone from his voice.

A dry bark of a laugh escapes Draco’s throat as he bows his head. “I’ve been asking myself that for almost four years now and all I can say is—fuck, no.”

Harry tilts his head closer. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

Draco lifts his head, staring into Harry’s sincere, concerned face. He wants to throw up. He feels too keyed up, too dizzy, too disgusting to be standing before Harry. How…how can he ever admit just how fucked up he is to this man? Draco swallows. Before he can stop himself, his lips begin to move, words escaping him.

“Do you ever—ever see yourself committing these horrible acts and you just can’t seem to gather the courage to stop? You just let it happen, you let all these terrible things happen because some sick part of you is not just weak but feels deserving of it.” His voice is distant, floaty. “It’s my awful truth.”

“I’ll be there in the truth with you,” Harry says, his face now close, cupping Draco’s cheek as his thumb softly caresses his skin.

Draco leans into the touch, craving the soothing gentleness of it. Harry’s gaze is so warm, and Draco doesn’t deserve to be looked at like this. Harry leans in to press his lips softly against his.

Then, Harry pulls back to look into Draco’s eyes, his thumb grazing Draco’s cheek once more before his hand slides to the nape of his neck, drawing him in to pepper more soft, close-lipped kisses on him, a soft hum of pleasure escaping him.

Draco allows himself to enjoy the gentle kisses before the realisation of just how disgusting he’s being hits him. He just finished being played by Bitty and fucked by Blaise, and now he’s here, kissing Harry like nothing’s happened. A hot, acidic taste of bile creeps up the back of his throat and he gags, turning his head away. He swallows the taste back.

“Please don’t touch me,” he rasps out.

Harry’s hand drops away immediately and he takes a small step back. The subtle show of respect causes Draco’s chest to ache with longing, with gratitude, and more potently with shame.

“I’m sorry,” Harry says. “I should have asked—”

“No, no. It’s not you,” Draco interrupts.

He’s too sick and too high to form the right words to ease away the look of concern on Harry’s face. There’s a moment of silence between them and Draco decides this is the time to turn on his heel to leave, but Harry’s hand on his elbow stops him.

“Draco,” Harry says, a sincere look in his eyes. “If you’re in trouble, I want to help you.”

Draco shakes his head in confusion, a frown playing on his lips. He needs to leave. He needs to get out right now before he explodes in his frustration and shame. But he’s weak, and instead he finds himself softly asking, “Why?”

“Because believe it or not, you deserve to be happy.”

“I don’t deserve it,” Draco insists, shaking his head.

He makes to move, but once again Harry reaches out for him.

“Draco, wait,” Harry says, running a hand through his hair. “Come home with me.”

Draco starts to feel uneasy, and it must show on his face because Harry blanches.

“No! I’m sorry, n-not like that. I mean, I don’t think you should be alone tonight and I want you to come to Grimmauld Place with me, just to sleep? Or, we can stay up all night to talk, or whatever you want, just— just please. Let me be your company tonight,” Harry suggests.

Draco bites his lower lip, his hands trembling as he tucks them under his arms. “Just sleep?”

Harry steps in closer. “Yes.”

Draco nods.

Harry takes him home.

\------

Draco awakes in the middle of the night in confusion.

There’s a heavy, gripping weight on his chest. He’s frightened and in pain, but the most overwhelming sensation is the grief.

He doesn’t know what he’s mourning anymore in these nightmares—the war, his father, his ex, his friends, his own guilt, despondency, or meaninglessness in life. Draco closes his eyes. The pain rips through him as he struggles to draw a breath, tears pushing against the back of his eyelids. He whimpers.

Warm arms wrap around him and Draco is pulled against a firm chest.

“Hey, you’re okay.”

Draco blinks in the dark. “I am?” he asks groggily.

“You are.” There’s a kiss against the nape of his neck. “I’m here. Go back to sleep.”

“Okay,” Draco whispers, closing his eyes once more, the pain easing.

“I’m here,” Harry says firmly once more before Draco slips back into sleep.

\------

Draco hadn’t planned on staying, but he finds himself sitting across from Harry at his kitchen table, nibbling on a piece of buttered toast as Harry rambles on about his plan to visit the Weasley’s for Sunday roast tomorrow. He’s hungover and feels grimy despite the fresh pair of thin grey joggers and green t-shirt Harry gave him to sleep in. The fit isn’t perfect, Harry being wider than Draco and a bit shorter, but it is easily the most comfortable clothing Draco has ever put on.

Good on his word, Harry hadn’t asked Draco to do anything last night. And when offered the guest bedroom, Draco had reached across the space separating them to grasp Harry’s hand as he asked to sleep next to him.

Harry held Draco the entire night. It was a kind of intimate comfort that Draco has been starving for, and the fact that it was Harry to comfort him in such a way only makes Draco realise how sad he is. He’s desperate for something or someone to fill the hole in his chest and give him a new meaning in life, a new validation. He’s been adrift for so long, he doesn’t remember what it’s like to not feel so fucking lonely all the time. He was ready to give up, to just let whatever horrible thing was planned for him just happen, but Harry fits that hole so fully and lovingly, Draco’s starting to think maybe he should try to come out of this whole ordeal alive.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“Not really, no," Draco admits, refusing to meet Harry’s eyes. He focuses on shredding the last bit of his slice of buttery toast into tiny, mushy pieces. “These last few months have been a nightmare for me.”

A nightmare of his own making.

“You were really upset last night.”

“It’s my own fault. I’m an idiot and deserve to feel like shit.”

Harry runs a hand through his hair. “I highly doubt you deserve half of what you think you do. And Draco—you are _not_ an idiot,” Harry says.

Draco finally meets Harry’s eyes, and the compassion he sees there makes him lose his breath.

Draco clears his throat. “I’ve made too many mistakes,” he starts with a sigh.

“People make mistakes. It’s why they put rubbers on the end of pencils,” Harry says with a small smile.

Draco wonders if Harry would look at him with such compassion and understanding if he knew just exactly what Draco was doing last night and what he’s been up to for the last few months.

“I can’t trust anyone.”

“You can trust me.”

“Can I?” he asks, his entire body going rigid.

“Yes.”

There’s a moment of silence between them. Draco carefully turns Harry’s words over in his head. He’s been told by several people now that they won’t hurt him only for them to do the opposite—Saeed, Theo, Bitty and Blaise. But when Harry says it, Draco just feels nourished. Respected. Happy and safe. He can’t quite recall the last time he felt happy _or_ safe. He had spent so long pretending he didn’t need or want it. But despite his feelings for Harry, Draco can’t seem to reconcile his wants with his reality, and his reality is that he’s created nothing but an ocean of lies between them. He wants to stop the lies, but he’s afraid to. He’s only been able to partially share the truth with Harry, through secrets and anonymity, but that’s not enough.

“Why did you do it?” Draco asks, shaking his head in disbelief. “Why did you testify for me? What the hell was the point?” Draco presses the heel of his palms to his eyes, exhaustion inflaming his frayed nerves. “I feel like I’m losing my fucking mind. I’ve been so miserable since the end of the war, realising all these Purebloods are just going about their days, not giving a toss over the damage we caused during the war.”

Draco looks up, his hands dropping into his lap. A small part of him screams to shut up, that despite Harry’s warmth and kindness, he’s still an Auror and can sniff out suspicious behaviour, especially when it sounds like a bloody confession. He can’t stop the words falling from his mouth. It’s as if something has been turned on inside of him and he needs to let out his pain.

“I think about the harm I cause every day, every single fucking day, and it just keeps getting more difficult to get out of bed in the morning. I _never_ deserved a second chance but I was given one, and I think about just how fucking wasted that chance has been on me. I hate the world I grew up in, I hate the world I continue to exist in, and yet I’ve made no real significant moves towards changing, I just keep cocking everything up. I’ve come to the conclusion that nothing is _real._ Nothing about _me_ is real. I’m nothing but a product of my environment, just another privileged Pureblood coasting through life, about to get his comeuppance, probably at the hands of some vigilante whose intentions are wholly valid. So, I’m puzzled. What did you see in me during the trials that made you think I was worth saving?”

When Harry doesn’t respond, Draco keeps going. “I’m a fucking degenerate, someone on their way to becoming a drug addict, someone who allows himself to be used for the twisted sexual entertainment of others. I’m a liar and…”

 _A thief,_ Draco thinks, shaking the intrusive thought away. “I’m no better than my father.”

“Draco, I didn’t know you’re struggling with substance abuse,” Harry says with concern, a hand reaching out to Draco, but Draco waves him off.

“I said I’m on my way.”

“I don’t see the difference. Even still, if you believe you’re escalating—”

“Are you listening? Can’t you see?” Draco snaps. “ _Everything_ in my life is escalating, but it doesn’t matter because there’s no point in bloody changing when everyone around you hates you and you hate yourself.”

Harry is quiet for a moment before he rests his elbows on the table and fixes Draco with an intense stare. Draco begins to tremble under it, his eyes burning. He’s fearful that he’s said too much.

“I spoke up for you at your trials because I truly believed you deserved a second chance at life. I still feel that way. Do you honestly think I would’ve struck up this friendship, that I would be trying to date you, if I thought you were no better than Lucius?”

“You don’t completely know me.”

“You’re right, I don’t, but I’ve made it perfectly clear that I want to, and I don’t say that lightly. You also know that I won’t hurt you. All that time we spent fighting each other as kids was enough. I don’t want to fight you any more. To think, if we’d been a bit kinder to one other, a bit more understanding, things could have been different for the both of us. But that’s not what happened and all we can do is look forward so we can work towards something better. If you’re ready to give up on yourself, Draco, I beg you to reconsider.”

Draco frowns. “Why?”

“Because anything dead coming back to life hurts,” Harry says, his tone serious. “There comes a time when you have to stop running from yourself, from your past, from your pain. Learning how to wake up and break the cycle is painful business, but freeing. You need to learn how to love yourself, Draco. Stop trying to find other things or people to fill that void in you. I’ve been there. I know.”

Draco shrugs. His chest and throat feels tight, his eyes sting, and a horrible, dawning realisation overcomes him. He can feel his eyes burning.

“Maybe I’m fine not knowing how. I don’t want to come back to life. Maybe I’m fine feeling like an idiot and suffering in silence.” He quickly wipes away the first drop of a tear.

It hurts, the truth.

Draco never loved himself. Ever. He’s always needed others to love him, in whatever sordid way they could. He’d accept it, only to later find out that they knew absolutely nothing about him. Blaise...Saeed... _his father._

But here’s Harry, wanting Draco to show him who he is, the good and the bad. He wants to exist in Draco’s truth, but only if Draco can accept himself first.

“You know that’s not true. You wouldn’t be here sitting at my table talking to me if that were true,” Harry says reassuringly.

Draco runs another hand through his hair and gets up from the table abruptly. He needs to put some space between them. He definitely needs to pull himself together and stop acting so bloody weak and miserable.

“I'm...I’m tired. I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”

Harry nods. “I’m happy you felt safe enough with me to share your feelings, but I’m not going to pretend this conversation never happened. I know you’re exhausted right now, but we’re going to revisit this again later, okay? I’m concerned. I like you, Draco, and I care about you.”

“Because you think I can be nice?” Draco asks, a weak smile tugging at his lips as he recalls a less complicated time, a night of firsts. Their first night out for drinks. Their first kiss. The first time Draco saw Harry as someone he wants to have in his life.

Harry returns the smile. “Yes. And I’ll keep saying this until I’m blue in the face, Draco, you deserve your second chance, you deserve to be happy, and if you let me, I want to help you get there.”

Draco wraps his arms around himself, some of the heat fleeing from his body. “When did you become so mature?”

Harry snorts. “Me? Mature?”

Draco smiles. “You’re something else, Potter,” he whispers.

There’s yet another moment of silence between them, this one fraught with melancholy before Draco whispers, “I like you, too, you know. I like you so much that sometimes I don’t quite know what to do about it anymore.”

“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.”

Draco opens his mouth, wanting to express a plethora of things like thank you and I want you too, I love you. He ultimately wants to confess to his multitude of sins and crimes, but instead he asks, “Can I take a shower here?”

Harry smiles kindly and nods at him as he stands from his chair. “Of course.”

The water runs in the walk-in shower and steam fills the small bathroom as Draco finishes rinsing his mouth out. Harry had left a spare toothbrush on the small pile of clothes he had set in the bathroom for Draco.

He peels off the green t-shirt, eager to wash off the memories of last night when there’s a soft knock at the door. Draco goes to crack it open, sticking his head out to peer at Harry inquisitively.

Harry lifts up a fluffy grey towel. “I thought you might want a towel with a Heating charm on it.”

Draco opens the door wider, his heart racing at how Harry’s eyes slowly travel down Draco’s chest in an appreciative gaze. He bites his lip before his gaze snaps back up to Draco’s face.

“Thank you,” Draco says softly, taking the towel from him to hug against his chest.

It is indeed warm, and Draco’s touched by Harry’s overwhelmingly considerate nature, touched by just about everything that makes Harry Potter so great.

“I hope the spare clothes I left out for you are alright. If you need anything else, I’ll be in the sitting room,” Harry says, drawing away from the door.

“Harry, wait,” Draco rushes out. Harry pauses in his steps.

 _I need him_ , Draco thinks before wrapping his hand around the collar of Harry’s shirt. He pulls him in and kisses him, every single despairing roar inside of Draco’s head silencing.

Harry smiles in between their kisses. “Are you sure?” he asks.

Draco nods, his breathing quickening as his eyes burn, a sweeping sensation of pure affection flooding him.

“Yes, I am,” he says, capturing Harry’s lips once more in a kiss.

It turns heated quickly with Draco coaxing Harry’s mouth open to suck his tongue into his mouth, a tingle of pleasure surging through him at Harry’s deep, reverberating groan. Draco suddenly pulls back, his fingers skating across the wide breath of Harry’s shoulders before gripping them.

Harry gently places his fingers on Draco’s neck, the bruising now having bloomed to noticeability. “Draco. What happened here?”

Draco feels a wave of shame hit him. His gaze immediately locks on the thin scar across the base of Harry’s neck. Harry’s marking proves he’s a hero, Draco’s proves he’s a coward.

“Harry,” Draco looks into those iridescent green eyes before wrapping Harry into a hug. “I’m so sorry...I’m sorry. There’s still so much I have to tell you, but please, right now, I just want you to touch me. I want you to make me forget all the bad, how bad everything...me...how everything is. At least for now, please? Please. Please,” Draco begs, pressing soft kisses against the side of Harry’s face, not caring that he sounds desperate.

“Anything, Draco. Anything you want.”

Harry runs his hands up and down Draco’s back.

“I’m here for you,” Harry says then as Draco tugs him from the doorway into the steaming bathroom. “I’m here.”

They make short work of removing each other’s clothing, which nearly proves difficult because Draco can’t stop kissing Harry with an urgency that Harry mirrors, his hands rough with callouses but his touch gentle as his hands slide up Draco’s bare flanks. Draco’s fingers find purchase in Harry’s hair, gripping the shaggy strands as he coaxes Harry’s mouth open to slide his tongue smoothly against Harry’s. When they finally make their way under the hot stream of water, Draco groans as his heavy cock slides against Harry’s.

Harry believes that something dead coming back to life hurts. Draco knows that he’s been dead on the inside since the end of the war, despite having sought out change and even love. He knows he’s failed. He knows he buried his chances at a real life by becoming embroiled in this Ministry scandal. He knows that he’s made mistakes in trusting the wrong people. He knows that Harry’s not a bandaid to alleviate these mistakes, but someone Draco loves. Someone that wants the best for him. Someone that makes Draco believe he can learn to love himself. He’s realising that maybe, just maybe, it might be worth suffering through all that pain of self-acceptance to break his cycle of depression, if Harry will be on the other side of it with open arms.

It's a kind of security Draco's unfamiliar with but one that makes him think it's time to do the right thing. Even if he's afraid of the fallout.

But before he allows himself to fall to pieces—all he wants is to feel nothing but pleasure in Harry’s capable hands.


	10. Chapter 10

_Was I stupid to love you?_

_Was I reckless to help?_

_Was it obvious to everybody else?_

_That I'd fallen for a lie_

_You were never on my side_

_Fool me once, fool me twice_

_Are you death or paradise?_

_Now you'll never see me cry_

_There's just no time to die._

_**No Time to Die/**_ **Billie Eilish**

_**BREAKING NEWS: Socialite and Daughter of Wizengamot Member Hospitalised After Brutal Attack** _

**_Jackson Leary for the Daily Prophet_ **

_Tracey Flint née Davis, age 22, was admitted into St Mungo’s early Friday morning after sustaining injuries from a brutal physical assault. The socialite and daughter of Wizengamot member Thaddeus Davis was found unconscious in Diagon Alley on a side street near Carkitt Market. Mrs Flint is currently in a magically-induced coma and is reported to be in critical condition. Both the Flint and Davis Family refuse to issue a statement at this point in time._

_The Department of Magical Law Enforcement will soon issue a statement on the matter, but initial reports state that the Auror Department is prioritising this dreadful incident, and believe it is linked to the string of burglaries that have plagued the ‘Pureblood Community’ (a colloquial term adopted by the DMLE) since early May. Sources say that they believe the culprit behind these break-ins is escalating, now turning their vigilante antics into actual physical violence against anyone in the community. A possible witness to one of the burglaries has been taken into custody for thorough questioning._

_If found and prosecuted, the culprit of these crimes could face charges of grand larceny, battery, and assault with the intention of causing aggravated, grievous bodily harm. Due to the urgent, dire matter of this evolving situation, an incentive has been introduced to the public in the amount of ten-thousand galleons for any information that will lead directly to the arrest and prosecution of the culprit. Anyone with information on the ongoing burglaries or crime against Mrs Flint is urged to contact the Department of Magical Law Enforcement’s Auror Office immediately._

Draco pinches the bridge of his nose at Pansy’s high-pitched scream.

“No, no, no, no!” Pansy cries, staring down at her copy of the evening _Daily Prophet._ “Oh, my God! _Tracey_ , poor Tracey! What the hell is going on, Draco? Who would do this? And Merlin. Everyone and their bloody mum will be out looking for someone to blame! What if they actually get it right? This can’t be how my life ends, it just can’t!”

She flops back down in her seat, her dinner untouched as she re-reads the short article once more. Draco dawdled at Harry’s house until the early evening. When he finally made it back to Malfoy Manor, he received a Floo-call from Pansy demanding that he come over to properly panic over the paper with her, the promise of at least a five-course meal attached to the call.

“I told you to calm down,” Draco murmurs as he pops a slice of roasted courgette into his mouth.

Despite his outward calmness, on the inside he’s absolutely terror-stricken. Flint must’ve found out about Tracey’s involvement with the investigation, beat her to a bloody pulp, and then left her for dead near Diagon Alley. That’s the only explanation Draco has for her current state, and the guilt he feels is staggering. He should have done more to protect her, not just by sending the dossier out, but actually making contact with her outside of that night at the Davis gala. She had slipped from his mind amidst the chaos, and now she’s hurt. Draco can’t help but feel partially responsible. What’s happened to Tracey has added to his fear that it’s not just his life on the line, or even his mother’s, but everyone around him due to his knowledge.

It’s becoming increasingly difficult to steer Harry’s Auror Team towards interrogating the families with Dark artefacts, instead of wasting their energy on finding the burglar (or burglars). After denying a warrant for Theo’s home, Draco was backed into a corner and had to at least approve surveillance on the Nott estate. This gave Andrews probable cause to question Millie, due to her increased visits to the Nott Estate. Draco had explained to the Auror Team that Millie is Theo’s girlfriend, but they'd refuse to rely on his word alone. Harry had unwittingly tried to help him in protecting his friends by encouraging his team to follow the proper procedures to obtain warrants to search the premises of Pureblood households. His argument was that if these families were hiding Dark objects all this time, they might be hiding something else that would interest the Ministry. But this has been widely ignored by Andrews and his growing support in investigating Theo. Draco knows this is just Andrew's way of pressuring him to fuck up royally and expose himself in the robberies. 

Draco scowls as Pansy begins to sob over her dinner.

“Who is this bloody witness they’re talking about, Draco?” she asks.

“They’re just blowing smoke up the public’s arse, Pansy, there is no witness. We’re dead in the water on evidence or any real leads, but they have to show _some_ progress. The Nott Estate had record-breaking Dark artefacts confiscated after the war. Of course they’re going to investigate Theo, they think he’s stealing out of jealousy and revenge. I’m not going to let them pin this on him, or you, or Millie, okay?”

“You’re not thinking about turning yourself in, are you?” Pansy asks, fixing him with an icy glare at his silence. “Oh, Draco! Don’t be foolish! I know you’ve been more miserable than usual lately, but that does not mean you get to throw away your life because things feel a bit too overwhelming.”

“Pansy,” Draco groans, placing his cutlery down and pushing his plate away from him. “I’ve been miserable because this is all on me, and it’s a lot.”

“I mean, surely they won’t send you up stream because of some bloody clothes and a dog!”

Draco whirls on her. “It’s more than that, you crazy bint! Larceny! Breaking and entering! Probably bloody animal endangerment! The list goes on, Pansy. And though _you_ won’t end up in Azkaban, it’s my arse on the line! It’s me on this bloody case trying to influence it so you stay out of it. And that’s if I’m not brutally murdered before then!”

Pansy flinches at his outrage before her face becomes withdrawn and her posture rigid. She picks up her cutlery, slicing into her steak with a fastidious precision. After she takes a bite, chews, and swallows, she places her cutlery down, draws in a breath, and turns to face him. Her eyes are bright with the threat of tears.

“I’m so _sorry_ , Draco, for all of it! I’m just scared, and I don’t want you to go to Azkaban. I’m so, so _sorry—_ ” Pansy says, her small body shaking as her voice breaks.

Draco quickly sets his food aside before facing Pansy to scoop her up into a hug, softly shushing her. It’s not her fault. She doesn’t know what Draco’s done, the risk he’s put everyone in because of the dossier in addition to the break-ins.

“It’s okay, Pans, it is. I don’t want you to be scared. No matter what happens, I don’t want you to be sorry. We all agreed to do this but I promise you, I’m going to keep you safe. I’m going to keep you all safe.”

Pansy’s hands curl into the fabric of his shirt as she weeps. “But I don’t want you to get in trouble. And you said Theo told Blaise and that _bitch—_ ”

Draco hushes her, running a hand soothingly through her hair. “Don’t worry about that. I can handle them. Please don’t make yourself sick with worry. Nothing has happened. Nothing is going to happen,” he says, for her and more so for himself.

Pansy sniffles, leaning back from the embrace. “I know, I just, it feels like things are escalating, what with that reward and the Ministry taking their sweet time investigating the families for further Dark objects. It’s like something is about to give and it’s not going to be good.”

Draco sits back in his chair, arms coming away from her as his own thoughts race with the same concern.

“We’re going to be fine,” he assures her, though his throat constricts as he forces the words out.

Pansy uses the napkin draped across her lap to dab at her eyes. “What on earth do you mean if you’re not murdered first?”

Draco closes his eyes briefly, annoyed with himself for that slip of the tongue. “It’s just that with everything going on, being off’d doesn’t seem so far off from a possibility.”

“Don’t say that!” she snaps, tossing the napkin on top of her unfinished dinner. “No one is going to kill you over these burglaries. The Shafiqs down to the bloody Flints would _never._ They don’t have the bloody _nerve._ ”

Draco nods tightly. If only she knew, he thinks.

“You never mentioned where you went after the Pink and Oceanic Party,” Pansy continues, changing the conversation. She sniffles once more before sipping from her glass of wine. “It was a smashing success, by the way. The debutantes will be talking about it for years to come.”

Draco shudders. “Nothing worth reminiscing.”

“But you eventually ended up at Potter’s?” Pansy asks with a quirked brow.

Draco smiles, thoughts of their time together making his blood pump through his veins in a ferociousness of warmth and excitement. “Yeah. Yeah, I did.”

Pansy shakes her head, a low whistle escaping from her pouty lips. “Darling. Aren’t you playing a little fast and loose here?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Draco says with a glare.

“It hasn’t crossed your mind that shagging Potter might exacerbate our situation?”

Draco fixes his gaze onto his plate. He doesn’t want to tell Pansy about his heart-wrenching conversation with Harry or the fact that since leaving Grimmauld Place, all he can think about is confessing to Harry as soon as possible.

“I told you not to worry.”

“I’m not worried about me, I’m worried about you, you impossible arse! I don’t want you to get hurt.”

Draco sighs, finally meeting Pansy’s scrutinising gaze.

“Everyone keeps saying they don’t want me to get hurt or they don’t want to hurt me, but it happens anyway. I’m always getting hurt, so I’m used to it. But I’m sure, Pans. Harry will never hurt me.”

“How can you be certain about that, Draco? What makes you think that Potter isn’t pretending to like you because he thinks you’re involved in the burglaries? I mean, if they’re trying to pin this on Theo, you can’t be far off on their list of possible suspects, too. Your family had Dark objects confiscated, too.”

“He wouldn’t do that to me,” Draco says vehemently.

Maybe a fortnight ago Draco would have bought into those suspicions, but now? It can’t possibly be true. The way Harry looks at him, how he touches him, how he encourages him—there’s no way Harry is faking his feelings for him.

Draco has made up his mind already, and he’s proven just how much he trusts Harry very recently. Draco just hopes what he’s done doesn’t immediately get traced back to him.

“I’m just saying—”

Before Pansy can finish, there’s a tapping at her window that causes them both to look up at once. A Ministry-grade owl is tapping its talon against the glass.

“I’ll get it,” Draco says, his brow furrowed.

When he opens the window, the owl swoops in, dropping a memo in his hands before flying back out with a short hoot. There’s only one reason why he’d be receiving something like this on a weekend, and at night to boot. Draco unfolds the memo.

> _New witness interrogation. Your presence is required immediately._
> 
> _-DMLE_

“Fuck,” Draco says, shoving the memo into his back pocket before running a hand through his hair. They’ve probably finally brought Theo in. “I’ve got to go, urgent business at the Ministry.”

Pansy stands from her seat. “Is it about us?”

“No, no,” Draco lies, shaking his head and making his way towards Pansy’s front door. He can hear her scrambling behind him. He’ll find a secure place to Apparate to Charing Cross and enter the Ministry through there. “Look, I’ll Floo-call you later, okay? Don’t worry about anything, I have everything under control, okay?”

Pansy’s face pales as she nods, her hand on the front doorknob. “You better Floo-call me later, Draco.”

She opens the door.

“You have my word,” he says before ducking out.

\------

Upon entering Level Two, Draco notices that the sconces in the corridor do not turn on when he passes by them. A quick glance up and down the corridor shows it to be empty, moonlight from the high windows the only light, illuminating some of the shadowy corners. Draco takes a deep breath and keeps walking, his wand in hand.

He lets out a yelp as he rounds the corner and bumps into someone.

Zacharias Smith.

The other man jumps back. “Merlin, you scared me to death!” Smith says, clenching his chest dramatically. “You’re bloody late, d’you know that? I’ve been sent to look for you.”

Draco peers behind Smith and notices that the corridor he’s in is properly lit. Down the hall he catches the flash of an Auror robe as that person enters Interrogation Room 3. He pockets his wand.

“Follow me.” Smith turns on his heel to head towards the room.

“Who did they bring in?” Draco asks, following him.

“That friend of yours, Nott.”

Draco grows cross. “And who authorised his arrest warrant? No such document crossed my hands.”

Smith shrugs. “Potter okayed it.”

Draco freezes. “Excuse me?”

Noticing that he’s stopped walking, Smith halts his steps, turning to face Draco. “Uh, yeah. Potter wanted us to pick him up immediately so we went to go collect the bastard.”

“Without judicial review of the arrest warrant?” Draco asks, incredulously.

He’s not only enraged, but he’s hurt to learn that Harry didn’t even spare him a simple head’s up about arresting Theo, even if it was a rushed decision.

“Dunno,” Smith says, turning to walk away again.

“Is Potter here?” Draco asks, quickly catching up to Smith.

“Dunno.”

“Well, what _do_ you know?” Draco snaps.

They’re in front of the interrogation room now. Smith’s hand goes to the doorknob and he shrugs.

“All I know is that this is your stop, Malfoy.” Smith opens the door. “Go on, then.”

Draco peers into the dark room, feeling apprehensive.

“Why are all the sconces out?” Draco steps back. “I’m not going _—_ ”

Draco’s cut off as Smith shoves him, hard, into the room before quickly slamming the door shut. Draco trips, the wind knocked out of him and his hands scraping against the concrete floor to break his fall. The sconces flare to life, then. When he looks up, Andrews is standing before him, his arms crossed against his chest.

“Nice of you to finally join me, Malfoy,” Andrews says, reaching down to curl one arm under Draco’s armpit and grab the collar of Draco’s shirt with the other, yanking him up. When Draco’s on his feet, Andrews claps him on his back. “There, there, Malfoy. Come on over to the table. Let me show you a few things.”

Draco shrugs him off and quickly reaches for his wand.

 _“Expelliarmus!”_ Andrews shouts, snatching the wand out of the air. “I said come to the table. Don’t make me snap it in half.” He waves the wand teasingly.

“What exactly do you think you’ll accomplish here?” Draco asks, stepping back towards the door and realising that it’s locked. “You can’t keep me locked in here forever. You certainly can’t kill me here.”

“Who said anything about killing you?”

“I know you broke into my townhouse. I saw your little threats,” Draco says, looking around the interrogation room for something, anything, he can use to fight off Andrews and get his wand back. “You and Smith, you both are holding me against my will. I’m a Ministry employee. I even outrank you. If something happens to me, you’ll go down for it in a heartbeat.”

Andrews laughs in amusement. “You really are something, aren’t ya? You don’t think I’ve been on to you since these string of burglaries were brought to the attention of the Auror Office? Preliminary research into the families with the most confiscated Dark artefacts after the war was conducted. You and that druggie Nott were top of the list of possible suspects. Ex-Death Eater and Death Eater’s son. Bruised and battered from the war, treated unjustly in education and workforce environments, murdered or incarcerated fathers. Drug problems. Christ, you are both the textbook profile of a criminal vigilante. I could arrest you now and no one in this bloody office would blink an eye!”

“You think Potter won’t have a thing or two to say about that?”

Once again, Andrews laughs. “Let me ask you, Malfoy, when you’re taking Potter’s cock up your ass, do you ever stop to think that I’m the one who encouraged him to put it up there? We’re fuckin' partners after all!”

Draco shoots Andrews a withering glare. He refuses to believe that about Harry, even as Pansy’s own words come rushing back to him. He shakes his head. “You’re a liar.”

“You poor, lovesick bastard,” Andrews says with a smirk.

He walks over to the table in the middle of the room. From Draco’s position, he can see a number of pictures spread out on the surface. “You Brits like to bottle up all of what you see for your Pensieves. Makes for tricky business if you ask me. People’s memories are fickle and often skewed in some way. Nah, I much rather prefer taking pictures. Muggle pictures. What you see is what you get. I know you’re very familiar with my work.”

Draco slowly approaches the table, walking around it, wide-eyed and anxious. What he sees causes him to collapse in the chair. He thought it was just him Andrews captured at the Flint property, but he was wrong. There’s pictures of Pansy stealing designer _Mugler_ , Millie shoving _Moste Potente Potions_ in her purse, and Theo with that blasted phonograph.

“All this time you’ve been trying to protect your pathetic friends. Well, I have them now. And more importantly, I have _you_.”

Draco swallows. Having Andrews catch him like this makes Draco want to shrivel up and die. “What do you want?”

Instead of responding, Andrews nods at the two-way mirror that takes up the entirety of one wall. Draco steels himself, knowing that any minute Harry is going to come through that door. Draco feels like sobbing. All of the trust that he’s put in Harry, all his hope and energy, and above all else, the secrets that he’s gathered and come across about this Ministry, is about to come exploding back into his face. His life is officially over.

When the handle turns, and the door swings open, it’s not Harry that enters the room.

It’s Marcus Flint.

Draco is up on his feet in seconds, but Andrews is on him just as quickly. Andrews Binds Draco’s hands behind his back before grabbing the back of his shirt, shoving him back down in his seat.

“Shut the fuck up, and stay the fuck down or else,” Andrews says, curling his fingers in the long strands at the nape of Draco’s neck.

“ _You fucking—!”_ Draco hisses before Andrews’s grip tightens and he slams Draco’s face into the table before him.

Immediately, the quiet of the room is pierced by Draco’s wild howls of pain, his vision blackening. He can feel the trickle of blood coming from his nose and the sting of a split lip as Andrews pulls him back up by his hair, the room spinning around him as the man’s laughter rings in Draco’s ears.

“GET THE FUCK OFF ME!” Draco roars, thrashing in his seat.

He stops fighting, however, when Andrews yanks his head back to glare down at Draco, pressing the tip of his wand under his chin.

Andrews smiles at him. “Good. I would stop flailing about like a fish out of water if I were you. I might just cut your throat with a Slicing Charm and make it look like a suicide.”

For a split second, Draco sets aside his fear to gather every ounce of strength and audacity to spit. He watches in satisfaction as it lands, tinged with blood, on Andrews’s cheek.

“Fuck you, and fuck your threats,” Draco wheezes out.

Andrews wipes away the glob on his cheek before striking Draco across the face with the back of his hand. Then, he sidles up beside Draco, pressing his lips close to his ear.

“You know what I love about this whole ordeal? With working with Mark and his dad? We all love a good before and after picture,” Andrews says, gently touching the polaroid of Millie. “She looks so happy here. I wonder what face she’ll make when I slice her open.”

Draco glances up at Andrews to see a twisted look of ecstasy on his face. He was right all along about him. He didn’t break into Draco’s townhouse on a mission for the Aurors, he did it on the Flint’s dime. As their hired hitman.

“Alright, alright. That’s enough, now, Scotty boy,” Marcus calls out.

Andrews smiles and steps back.

“Really, Draco. You still have some fight in you. I’m surprised. I was sure by now you’d be kissing my feet and begging to suck my cock if I let you and your friends go.”

“Don’t you think it should be the other way around?” Draco starts. “You obviously know what I have in my possession.”

Marcus claps his hands. “Why yes! I do. Congratulations, Draco, darling! You got what you wanted! From stealing Dark objects to very _important_ ,” Flint coughs, “very _fragile_ documents.”

Marcus approaches the table, wand out. With a few quick slashes in the air, Draco’s bound hands are readjusted, tugging so hard that for a moment he believes his arms will be pulled from out of his shoulder sockets. They now link together in front of him, and Marcus Binds them to the table. He stands before Draco, looming and obnoxious.

“Finally! The whole Wizarding World is listening, right Draco? They’re finally ready to see _you, hear you._ You’ve got them panting to see what _you_ come up with next in exposing the people in our little community!” Marcus barks out a derisive little laugh as he shakes his head. “You’re the worst kind of traitor. But understand this, Draco: my family _owns_ this Ministry. And it’s going to stay like that. For decades the Flint family has been disrespected because we weren’t as rich or as glamorous as say, The Notts or your pathetic little family. After the war, I couldn’t even get an offer from the Chudley Cannons. _The fucking Cannons!_ But you? You were able to go to law school! Your mother was able to snag Dany fucking Zabini! Well, guess what, Draco? We’re now just as glamorous as you, even more so. And if my bitch wife dies in the hospital my associates practically _own_ , then I’ll be just as rich as you. More powerful. Oh, what will the Wizarding World think when they find out that you and your friends stole from us, _and_ killed my wife out of sheer, petty violence against your own?”

Draco tries to rein in the anger that washes over him at Marcus’s plans for Tracey. “So you’re doing all this because, what? Because you were poor and bullied growing up? Fuck off, Flint.”

Instead of responding, Marcus waves a hand towards Andrews, who punches Draco across the face so hard he nearly falls out of his chair. Draco cries out at the impact, but pushes through.

“You’re a fucking _loser_ , Flint! And you won’t get away with this.”

“I thought you were smart? I already have, Draco! You saw the files. You saw the photos. We have the Ministry wrapped around our little finger. We have our own team of Aurors at our beck and call! Even Shacklebolt is afraid of us. Do you know how much dirt we have on the Minister for Magic? Merlin. Not only does the man have an extramarital affair, he does so with a _Muggle._ From that heinous coupling comes a Squib that he tried to hide from our world. How is that fair? The Minister can hide his mistakes, but we’re forced to live with ours openly? I don’t think so, not anymore.”

Marcus leans forward, resting his hands on the table between them.

“When the Minister refused to nominate my father’s bid for the Wizengamot out of _prejudice_ , instead throwing his support behind Thaddeus Davis, I wanted to kill him. But you can’t kill the Minister without a few people noticing. To think, after all the support we threw behind him after the war, he stabbed us in the back! It was like a slap to the face!” Marcus nearly shouts, his tone bordering on hysterical. “I mean, yes, the support was to save face for our family, but still. When he rejected us like that, something had to be done. So we got rid of his abomination of a child as a warning to stop fucking us about, or else we’d go after his daughters.”

Draco feels ill. He shakes his head. “You’re a monster.”

Marcus ignores him, seemingly on a roll with his story. “And now Father will usurp that loser Shafiq for Chief Warlock.” He snorts. “The exiting Chief Warlock Mormont is all for throwing his support behind my father. It’ll go down in the history books. The first man to be nominated outside of the Wizengamot for one of their most prestigious positions! Mormont has no choice, what with the threat of his sordid affairs with his attaché being exposed to his stupid, Mudblood wife. That woman owns most of their fortune. He’d be ruined without her. Can you believe it? A Mudblood propping up a Pureblood?”

“ _You_ wouldn’t be standing where you are without Tracey and her family,” Draco mutters darkly.

“What was that, Malfoy? I don’t think I heard you properly. My filthy halfblood wife propped me up?” Marcus scowls. “She was just a pretty accessory, something that I had to enhance to be passable in our world. I took something low and dirty and made it beautiful, and what did she do? _Betray me_. She thought she was smart, passing information along to Potter. But guess what? I have eyes and ears _everywhere._ She fashioned herself an Auror, can you believe that? They seriously give that title to anyone, don’t they, Scotty?”

At this Andrews shrugs. “We don’t mingle with No-Maj-born where I come from. Dunno why you even bother with them here, to be honest.”

“You’d feel the need to do something about their infestation too if your government started to give attaché positions to bloody Muggleborns over you! I was denied such a position here out of pure discrimination! Thaddeus, weak as he is has some use. He let slip that the Chief Prosecutor’s brother was a reckless drunk, a boil on his brother’s arse.” Marcus glances at Draco. “Guess how easy it was to get rid of him with the Chief Prosecutor’s blessings?”

Draco bites back his gasp, all his suspicions and fears about his boss confirmed.

“And what about the Agnelli’s?” Draco asks, knowing that Marcus is feeling brave, invincible, and willing to open his fat mouth to spill all of his secrets.

Marcus grins at Draco. “You would want to know about them, wouldn’t you? Your mum’s causing them a lot of problems, did you know that? Well, they’ve even asked us to ‘take care’ of her, haven’t they Scotty?” Marcus asks with a chuckle, jutting his chin at Andrews.

Draco’s head snaps to the other man, now standing off to the side, arms crossed and a sullen expression on his face. The chill that runs up Draco’s spine causes him to let out a soft whimper.

“Leave my mother out of this.”

“You’ve always been such a mummy’s boy, you weak bastard. Both you and Blaise, mummy’s boys. You were quite the pair at Hogwarts. Always sharing your women, my poor wife, one of them.” He sighs. “The Agnelli’s are funding our venture, Draco! Though, they’re not as rich as they pretend to be,” Marcus mocks. “They have to skim money from all the charity events that run through St Mungo’s, a position _The Flint’s_ help them achieve. We’ve also been skimming money from Games and Sports and the Davis Gala to outbid your mother on her building deal. Do you know how rich it’ll make my family and the Agnelli’s if this deal goes through? We can sell space off to Pureblood families faster than crepes for a Sunday brunch at _the Pearl_.”

“Why are you telling me all this? Aren’t you afraid I’ll turn you and your fucked up family in?”

Marcus waves his hand again at Andrews. He grabs the back of Draco’s head.

“You know why, Draco? Because I’m not afraid of you. My family’s been slowly infiltrating the Ministry with our influence and people since the end of the war. If you breathe a word against me, I’ll destroy everything you’ve ever loved, starting with Harry Potter. Whose people do you think gave him that slit across his throat? Yeah. He ambushed _my_ people during one of my gambling events, and we don’t play nicely when our fun is interrupted. After him, I think I’ll move onto your dear mum, and then after her, Pansy. Oh, Merlin, Pansy. Isn’t she like a sister to you? The only one of Blaise’s cohorts that you haven’t had a taste of. What a shame. I’ll handle her myself...I wonder what I can make that pouty mouth of hers do. I’m getting hard just thinking about it.” Marcus laughs as he adjusts himself in his trousers.

“Scotty here has already provided you with a timeline,” Marcus continues, his face manic. “I want that fucking folder back by then, or I’ll come for you, Draco. And _oh darling,_ I’ll rip you and yours to shreds. You’ve been warned.”

The last thing Draco sees is Marcus gesturing towards Andrews before his head is slammed onto the table again. This time his whole world goes black.

\----

Draco wakes with a pained groan.

The first thing he notices is that he’s soaked to the bone. The second is that Draco’s nose is definitely broken.

It’s raining, and he’s been deposited outside the gates of Malfoy Manor in the mud. He can hardly move, his body screaming out in pain and having sunk deeply into the mud. He’s sure that at least two of his ribs are cracked. Definitely sustained when unconscious.

“Zilly…” Draco cries out weakly, trying and failing to pull himself out of the mud.

“Zilly!” he tries once more.

There’s a soft pop beside him before his vision is clouded by Zilly’s terrified face.

“Master Malfoy!” she squeaks. “Are you being okay?!”

Draco huffs. “It’s Draco, Zilly. Please, help me...get into the Manor.”

“Yes, Mas _—_ Draco sir!”

She carefully takes a hold of Draco’s hand and closes her eyes. Draco can feel the tug at his navel and soon he’s on his bed, Zilly making quick work of drying and cleaning his clothes.

Draco groans again, slowly turning to his side. “Zilly, can you...check for my wand?”

The house-elf nods, her eyes anxious as she gazes up and down his body. “It being in your back pockets, Sir. Is Zilly being Summoning it for you?”

Draco nods. “Yes, please, if you can…”

“Yes, Mas _—_ Draco!”

She lifts up her hand, palm up, and closes her eyes. A second later, Draco’s wand is in her small hand. She hands it to him and the sheer sense of relief is enormous.

“Thank you for that, Zilly,” Draco says, the words coming out slurred. “Please send a message to Miss Parkinson that I’m home, everything is alright, and I’ll Floo her in the morning.”

“Yes sir.”

“Good, thank you.”

Then, he promptly passes out.

When Draco awakes again, he’s well into the next day.

He checks his clock to find it’s a quarter to noon. He further realises that Zilly changed him into his pyjamas and even healed his broken nose and ribs. He’s both surprised and very grateful for her help, and will have to think of a way to show his gratitude later.

He throws his blanket off of him, quickly grabbing his wand from his nightstand. He needs to figure out his next moves, but first, a shower to wash away yesterday’s mistakes is needed. Then, getting Harry’s Cloak of Invisibility back to him is the priority of the day.

He ignores Pansy’s owl post placed on his nightstand, instead heading to his chest of drawers to ensure that Harry’s Cloak is still there. He touches the shimmering fabric, the slick material calming his nerves. He had already planned to do this, and knowing that Harry is at the Weasley matriarch’s for brunch gives him the perfect opportunity to sneak it back into his bedroom.

And, while there, it wouldn’t hurt to check the area Harry keeps his files to see if he’s made any headway.

It’ll be a quick job, in-and-out, with no one the wiser.

\----

 _He’s not supposed to be here! He’s not supposed to be here! He’s not supposed to be here!_ Draco’s mind screams, the Cloak of Invisibility slipping from his hands to land at his feet as Harry slams him into the wall, pressing his wand into the hollow of his neck. It’s not lost on Draco that this is the second time in less than 24-hours that someone’s done this to him.

“Are you going to explain to me why you have that in your possession?” Harry asks with an icy calmness, his wand still firmly in place.

“Well, Harry, some burglars are always looking for windows of opportunity and a while back, I took mine,” Draco says dryly.

“Are you—are you seriously making a pun right now? With my fucking wand pressed into your _neck?_ ” Harry hisses, jabbing his wand harder under Draco’s jaw as he uses his body weight to press Draco against the wall of his bedroom.

Draco cringes. “Right, you’ve made your point. There’s no need for the excessive force. What happened to Sunday brunch at Weasley's?” Draco asks, his voice shaking only slightly as he tries to affect nonchalance.

“Fuck! _FUCK!_ ” Harry roars, withdrawing his wand and body to shove his fingers into his unruly hair.

Draco swallows down the fear, humiliation, and anger warring in him as he watches Harry tug at his hair, a wild look in his green eyes.

“Look, Harry, I can explain. I can explain everything,” Draco says calmly, lifting his hands, palms facing out in a gesture of peace. “Just give me a chance.”

“I know. Draco, I’ve _known_ ,” Harry says, his voice full of despair. “What kind of Auror do you take me for? The facts have been staring me down for ages.”

Cold dread rushes through Draco, making him feel nauseous. He closes his eyes briefly as his head thumps against the wall and his arms fall loosely to his sides.

“Oh, fuck.”

Harry takes several steps backwards before turning and heading towards his nightstand to yank open the top drawer. He pulls out something small and black before tossing it towards Draco.

Draco’s hand darts out. He snatches his missing Louboutin tassel out of the air. The one he had blamed Sprinkles of destroying.

“I found that in my bedroom _ages_ ago,” Harry says, his voice tight. “I kept that bit of information to myself because I wanted you to _trust me_. I wanted you to come to me and tell me what you did.”

Draco begins to tremble as he turns the tassel over in his hands. Kreacher must’ve dislodged it when he was snivelling all over Draco’s shoes. That _stupid_ fucking elf.

“Before last week, you’ve never been in my bedroom, and there was no feasible way for it to get up here if you lost it downstairs. And I found it around the time I realised my cloak was missing.”

“Harry, please let me explain.”

“Imagine my surprise when I questioned Kreacher,” Harry continues, ignoring Draco. “He’s been avoiding you, actually. He refuses to be in the same room with you longer than he has to, otherwise, he feels compelled to hurt himself, despite me ordering him not to. And all because I asked him if anyone has been in this house that wasn't invited. He didn’t name you, but he did admit to people being here when I wasn’t…And then, who would be able to enter Grimmauld Place despite my wards? Maybe someone who has been here before. Maybe a _blood relative_ to the Black’s _._ ”

“Fuck,” Draco whispers. “ _Harry,_ ” he tries again. “Please, let me—”

“Just stop!” Harry says sharply, making Draco flinch. “You don’t have to bloody explain a single thing! I’ve been profiling you. I _know_ what your reasons are for the burglaries, even though I have no idea why you’d target _me_. It hurts that you’d steal from me, then return the cloak to pretend you never stole it. I don’t understand your logic, Draco. And whatever reasons you have will not make any of this fucking alright.”

Draco slides down the wall then, landing on his bum as he draws his knees to his chest, his breathing becoming ragged as panic suffuses him. “So, this is it? This is how this ends? Are you going to take me in?” He can already see Marcus getting his goons to murder Draco in their custody.

In three quick strides, Harry is in front of him, landing on his knees, his gaze hard and piercing as he stares into Draco’s face.

“If you believe I’d do that, then you haven’t been listening to me the last few months,” Harry hisses. He drops his wand to the floor and places one hand on each of Draco’s knees. “I told you I’m here. I told you I won’t hurt you. I fucking told you that I’ll be in the truth with you. If you think I’m going to back out now, then you don’t know me at all. Why do you think I haven’t informed the team of my missing cloak? The Ministry would have rained down hell on my behalf, and if my suspicions about you were right, I wouldn’t be able to help you right now.”

Draco’s eyes begin to burn. He draws in a breath. “What should I do?”

Instead of responding, Harry’s hands slide off from Draco’s knees and he eases himself beside Draco, slumping against the wall, a look of exhaustion on his face. Harry tilts his head up to stare at the ceiling, and Draco watches as his Adam's apple bob when he swallows.

“You need to recuse yourself from the investigation right _now_. Draft something up quickly and owl it over to the Chief Prosecutor. Maybe tell him there’s a conflict of interest because you might be targeted for your involvement in the investigation. Say something along those lines. Just get yourself off the case to avoid any problems down the road. Then, you’re going to gather every single stolen item you have in your possession and send them to the DMLE anonymously with attention to Auror Gibbons. I’m sure you have things to get in order before you do this, but I wouldn’t wait more than 24-hours.”

Draco draws in a breath. “And the dossier?” he asks reluctantly. It was now or never, embracing the fact that he’d taken a leap of faith and anonymously sent the dossier to Harry.

Harry nods, a slow smile crossing his face.

“So it came from you...I wasn’t completely sure. My team has been receiving an influx of information surrounding activity in Games and Sports, and then we receive this dossier, and then Tracey is hospitalised. We thought she had sent it and Flint retaliated. You have no idea how much that changed everything, I mean _everything_. It took me hours to break through the privacy wards on it, by the way.”

Draco snorts. “Nice to know my skills are still top-notch. So. What’s going to happen?”

Harry shakes his head. “First thing’s first, we need to get you safely removed from this case. Then we need to protect your mum and friends from any backlash that might happen when we release all the details of the dossier to the media.”

“ _What?”_ Draco snaps. “You can’t release all the details...you’ll get everyone murdered!”

Harry’s head rolls against the wall to stare at Draco, his vivid eyes severe as his hand goes to Draco’s knee. He squeezes.

“Do you trust me?”

Draco sucks in his bottom lip. He’s been asking himself that question on and off for months, the amount of conflicting information and emotions taxing on Draco’s nerves. But he knows he’s in love with Harry, and he knows looking into the other man’s eyes right now, that the feeling is mutual.

“Yes.”

“Then you have to believe me when I say that releasing the dossier to the media and to the public is the best thing to do. We get the public on our side, so when we start our investigations, all the reasons for doing so are out in the open. There will be no way for the Flints or their co-conspirators to shield themselves from arrest. Then, we begin to pick apart the people within the Wizengamot who are involved, and question the families we know are holding onto illegal, Dark objects from the evidence you cleverly provided. I won’t let them send you to Azkaban over the burglaries.”

Draco’s shocked. He can’t believe this is happening. “Why are you helping me so much?”

There’s a long stretch of silence before Harry says, “Because I want to.”

“Because you _love_ me.”

Harry nods. A jolt of pleasure shoots through Draco.

“I do love you. That’s part of it.”

Draco wraps his fingers around Harry’s hand. “What’s the other part?”

Harry shrugs. “As I’ve said before, the Ministry in and of itself is still grossly corrupt and adheres to poisonous, unjust hierarchical bollocks. Remember, I refuse to put my faith in any set system. But I’m party to their system, and among only a few in the Auror Department trying to change things for the better. Hermione is also trying to change things in her department and Ron in his,” Harry says, looking back up at the ceiling, his expression dark.

“Even Kingsley is trying, but is bogged down by the threat against his family. His son, Ethan, was murdered and we had no idea who was behind it until you turned in the dossier. His constituents and the people who put him into power are now his greatest enemies. We’re all playing a role in this great machine that keeps churning out favours for the rich, and we all have a hand in maintaining its current structure, Kingsley included. It almost seems impossible, breaking the wheel so we can have a more co-operative commonwealth. And though I don’t agree with _how_ you went about calling out some of the Pureblood families, I can understand your frustration. There is no black and white when it comes down to righting wrongs, Draco. What matters is only how you navigate the grey.”

“Merlin, I was right all along,” Draco says in awe. “You _are_ an anarchist in hiding.”

Harry smiles grimly. “In the loosest understanding of the term.”

Draco nods. “Why don’t we just burn the whole institution down?”

Harry barks out a laugh. “Oh, certainly. Let’s add arson to high treason and domestic terrorism, that definitely sounds like so much fun,” Harry says.

“Well, it would be pretty damn brilliant if you could. Something’s gotta give, otherwise what was all this for?” Draco responds, shifting into a more comfortable position against the wall.

Harry looks over at him then, his expression fraught with tension.

“Draco. There’s something much larger at play here within the Ministry that you’ve only just begun to uncover. There’s a history, dating back to the 70s, of corruption that my parents and the Order of the Phoenix tried to expel with some success in the Ministry. It’s only within the last three years that my team has made any real movement to overturn some of the corruption in the Ministry left behind by Voldemort’s reign.”

Draco shakes his head. “What are you saying? That you actually _are_ part of some secret society staging a coup in the Ministry?”

Harry fixes him with a steely gaze. “I’m part of a shadow government that’s taken root in the Ministry of Magic since the end of the second Wizarding War. We’re working against corrupt Ministry officials with blessings from the Minister for Magic.”

There’s a pregnant pause. Draco stares dumbly at Harry before bursting into a peal of nervous, gittery laughter. “Shut the fuck up! That’s just...a shadow government? That’s all just some Lovegoodian-type level conspiracy hogwash!”

“I’m serious. And I’m trusting you with this information, Draco. You’re sort of in the thick of it now, anyway. Once you started sending in the cursed heirlooms and the Department of Mysteries started cataloguing which families still had Dark objects, it made it easier for my team to justify our suspicions that these families are involved in dirty politics. You’re quite valuable to us.”

“Oh, great. I’m finally useful to the great Harry Potter,” Draco mutters, a weak smile on his face. “So what are you, the fucking Illuminati?”

Harry runs a hand through his hair. “Let’s hold off on the jokes for a later date, shall we? I’m risking _everything_. Years of investigation and my colleagues' lives, simply by telling you this.”

“Like Tracey?”

“Yes. Like Tracey. Who quite literally risked her life.” The guilt radiating off of Harry is palpable, and Draco squeezes his hand briefly in consolation.

“I wanted to pull her out, I did. Every single day staying with Marcus and his family was a direct threat to her wellbeing, but she refused to step away from the investigation.”

“You have to protect her, Harry. Flint plans on killing her to access the rest of her dowry. Andrews and Smith...they lured me to the Ministry last night so Flint could threaten me. They want me to send the dossier back or they’ll kill me.”

Harry fixes him with surprised eyes. “You’re just telling me this _now?_ Draco! Merlin. And I have some of my best people posted outside her door at St Mungo’s. She’ll be safe until we get the dossier out and Flint arrested.”

“You know _now._ Did you know your partner is dirty?”

“Yeah, for a while now I had my suspicions. Based on the ledger you sent me and information Tracey provided me, there’s damning proof that Marcus’s relationship with Andrews extends beyond contractor and hitman. Andrews has connections to a crime family in New York City, the American mafia organisation. He’s introduced them to Flint, and now Flint has spearheaded an illegal gambling operation within the Department of Games and Sports. And from the files you’ve provided, the Flint family is involved in much more than government corruption. Another nod to the dossier, we have solid proof that they’re embezzling money from their bloody charity organisations, the Davis family’s charity organisations, and St Mungo’s.”

“That’s basically what Flint bragged about last night, in addition to some murders and having Andrews knock me around.”

“Merlin,” Harry squeezes Draco’s hand now. “Are you alright?”

“Asks the bloke who shoved a wand in my throat just a bit ago,” Draco mutters.

“I’m sorry about that,” Harry says with a frown. “You caught me off guard. I mean, you were breaking into my bedroom.” Harry sighs. “The fact that Flint brought you into the bloody _Ministry_ to rough you up shows they’re getting cocky, and _messy._ Careless.”

“What about Tracey’s father?”

“She’s given up information on her own father's rise in the Wizengamot. We were able to flip him to be a double agent for us, under the agreement that if his information proves to be useful in the end, he’ll have full immunity.”

“And...and what of our Minister for Magic? There’s proof in the dossier that underhanded Pureblood bribes to Ministry officials and the Wizengamot got him elected,” Draco says.

“Kingsley knows that because of Pureblood involvement during his fundraising for his campaign, his position is compromised. At the moment, he’s just a figurehead and he’s fully prepared to step down once we expose the culprits attempting to illegally seize power in the Ministry. We had to think _bigger_ about how to counter-program some of the toxic policies and backhanded deals. If Kingsley has to sacrifice his position, then so be it. Ideally, there would be a new election for Minister.”

“And who might that be?”

Harry shrugs. “I don’t know, but someone elected by the people and _not_ the Wizengamot.”

“ _Fuck_ ,” Draco hisses in disbelief. “No wonder he wants to kill me if I don’t get those files back to him. His whole world and all his dreams are about to come crashing down.”

Harry exhales heavily, his demeanour darkening as he turns to face Draco. “I won’t let them hurt you, do you understand? This whole ordeal is coming to its peak, and I refuse to lose anyone else because of it. I promise you, no one will hurt you.”

“Harry,” Draco says solemnly. “They’re going to find some way to punish me. If it doesn’t involve Andrews slicing my throat open, then it’s going to be exposing you in some way, I don’t know…”

“Don’t worry about me, Draco. And I promise you, killing you right now would do them no favours. They’re desperate to get the dossier back, and they have no idea I have it, right?”

“Right.”

“Good. Just trust me. This will all play out in our favour.”

There’s a moment of silence between them before Harry suddenly laughs, uncontrollably and tinged with despair.

“You stole someone’s fucking _dog,_ ” he chokes out, his free hand slapping across his forehead. “Christ.”

Draco shoots him a small, cheeky smile. “If it’s of any consolation, Sprinkles is now practically family.”

Harry shakes his head in disbelief, the humour draining from his face as he slips his hand from Draco’s to draw his knees up to his chest, wrapping his arms around them. “You’ll have to give her back, you know?”

“Do I have to?” Draco asks, pursing his lips.

Surprisingly, the thought of giving Sprinkles back fills him with grief. She’s been his ally these last few months.

“Yes. Along with anything...your accomplices...may have stolen,” Harry says, eyeing Draco questionably.

Draco shrugs. “No one else is involved in this.”

“Draco, you don’t have to lie to me or deal with this alone—”

“I’m not alone, am I? You’re here.”

When he feels Harry’s warm calloused hand wrapping around his cold one once more, Draco exhales, the tension in his shoulders easing as he squeezes Harry's hand.

“24-hours?” Draco asks, maneuvering his body so he can rest his head on Harry’s shoulder.

Harry nods. “24-hours.”

“Oh, _fuck_ ,” Draco hisses, his gut churning. He suddenly remembers his obligations for Monday evening. “Tomorrow is the fucking debs ball. I _have_ to go.”

Harry stiffens against him. “You were possibly facing time in Azkaban because of your crimes against Purebloods and yet you’re worried about missing a Pureblood event?”

Draco glances up, catching Harry’s amused smile before he scrubs his face in disbelief.

“I know, I know. Welcome to my world,” Draco says with a shrug. “It’s utterly ridiculous, but there’s no way around it.”

“48-hours, then. At the latest.”

Another moment of silence falls between them and Draco swallows, his heartbeat racing with an onslaught of panic and grief. “I never want to become my father,” Draco whispers.

Harry pauses. “You never will.”

“I never want to see him again, either. I hope I never have to.”

Draco swallows down the painful ball of emotion pressing up his throat. “Please, tell me I won’t have to.”

Harry pulls him into a fierce hug. “You won’t,” he says.

\-------

Everything here glitters.

The Jewell Ball Committee has outdone themselves this year with Narcissa as Chairwoman, the subtle message of Purity not lost on Draco as he takes in just how white his surroundings are. It’s nearly blinding. They’ve secured the Selwyn’s country estate in Dorset for the event, and the enormous 18th century Georgian ballroom is stunning with its white, wooden, floor-to-ceiling panels, ionic columns, and intricately carved mouldings. Draco keeps his comments to himself about his mother’s choice of estate.

There is a mix of white, ivory, and pale pink peonies nearly bursting from their vases set on each table and in the hands of each débutante Draco’s come across. Everything glitters—from the Waterford Crystal centrepieces to the dappled Swarovski crystal chandeliers charmed to sparkle, and the ice and ivory chiavari chairs. The muted prism of colours that reflect off their surfaces are complex and gorgeous, illuminating everything from the delicate lace-patterned table linens to the tall floor-to-ceiling Georgian arched windows.

Draco doesn’t know what he’s doing here. He feels like he’s in a daze as he walks around the ballroom, his hands shaking so badly he has to shove them in his trouser pockets. He can still feel a slight throbbing ache in his nose despite it being healed. He knows that even with Harry’s promise of protection, he’s still very much exposed and vulnerable.

He’d spent his night with Harry carefully crafting his recusal letter to the Chief Prosecutor, knowing fully that the man is in bed with Flint. Draco had then spent the rest of the day explaining to Harry how he'd conducted each robbery, how he'd planned on influencing the case, how he’d become somewhat dependent on Muggle drugs, and his fucked up encounter with Blaise and Bitty. Harry had sat through it, listening carefully, not judging him. He'd made Draco dinner, held him, kissed him, and made love to him instead.

Draco pulls out his pocket watch when he notices that people are starting to take their seats. When he looks up, Pansy is darting between tables to reach him, dressed in a strapless, sweetheart silk champagne-coloured mermaid gown.

“Oh, good, you’re finally here,” she huffs in frustration. “Excuse me? Yes, over here,” she snaps at a passing waiter. She pulls off two flutes of champagne from the waiter’s tray, handing Draco one before taking a small, pouty sip from her own. “You would not _believe_ the shitstorm I just had to suffer through in prepping that creepy whore for her announcement. You would think she’s never sat through an etiquette lesson before in her life by how shit her curtseys are!”

Draco’s loath to run into Blaise and Bitty, knowing that they’re both lingering somewhere in the shadows, probably watching his every move. He forces himself not to wipe his sweaty palms on the legs of his traditional, fitted black tuxedo, his bow-tie feeling tight around his neck despite adjusting it several times before arriving at the event.

“Where’s Bitty right now?” Draco asks, his hands clenching into fists.

Pansy scoffs. “Probably reapplying her makeup charms after the dressing down I gave her. Vapid bitch.”

Pansy takes another angry sip from her glass, her eyes flashing dangerously at the glass in Draco’s hand. He takes a sip before narrowing his eyes at her.

“What is it that you’re not telling me?” He’s known Pansy nearly all his life, there’s no doubt that something beyond Bitty’s bitching is bothering her.

“She’s wearing _the necklace_ ,” Pansy announces gloomily.

Draco gives her a bemused look. “I don’t follow.”

“The Harry Winston.”

Draco grimaces, remembering. That first year after the war, when Muggle fashion had started to trickle into the Wizarding World, Blaise had bought Pansy a 20-carat diamond necklace set in platinum, the cluster of little diamonds shaped like sunflowers. It had been an undeniable move towards a marriage proposal, but somewhere along the way Blaise had lost interest. When Blaise had broken things off with Pansy to be with Bitty, Pansy had returned all the trinkets he had given her throughout their relationship. Parting with the Harry Winston had been the hardest for her, but she'd refused to keep it as it was too symbolic of when things had been brilliant between them.

Draco finds it disrespectful that Blaise would recycle such a significant gift, but then again, he's starting to learn a number of disturbing things about his best mate.

“I’m so sorry, Pansy,” Draco says, placing a hand on her shoulder.

Pansy shrugs before tossing back the rest of her drink.

“Thanks. It was more a blow to my ego than to my heart,” she says.

Draco moves closer to her.

“And no, I don’t need a hug, but thank you.” She turns to give him a half-smile.

The chandeliers begin to flicker and Pansy immediately perks up.

“Show time!” she exclaims, handing Draco her empty flute. “Go take your seat, they’re about to start, and I have to find your mother.”

Pansy places a hand on his shoulder, tugging him down to place a kiss on his cheek.

“I’ll see you later, love,” Draco says, using his rare term of endearment for her.

Pansy looks surprised. She turns away, but pauses and faces him once more.

“Are you okay?” she asks, a small concerned frown playing at the corners of her mouth.

Draco pastes on his best grin. “Why wouldn’t I be?” he asks.

Pansy takes a moment longer, her eyes searching Draco’s face, before she nods, finally disappearing in the crowd.

There’s no reason to ruin Pansy’s big night with what he plans to do after. Draco has everything set up. He’s sent the letter, made arrangements to have Sprinkles go back to her owners, and employed a couple of the most loyal Malfoy house-elves to visit Theo, Pansy, and Millie in the next 48-hours to request any and all stolen items be brought back to Malfoy Manor.

As the event starts, Draco makes his way to his assigned table and takes a seat beside an elderly couple that he recognises from this Season’s garden parties, distant relatives of the Rowles.

As the Chairwoman, his mother is in charge of announcing each débutante. Draco watches her through sad eyes as she takes the stage. She looks beautiful, relaxed, and so happy, happier than Draco’s ever seen her in his life. Her white blonde hair falls over one shoulder in large, swooping curls, her silver, crepe halterneck gown glowing in the light. He wants to remember her exactly like this.

The progression of announcing each débutante, her escort, and her biography is tedious and Draco finds that he has to blink rapidly to keep from nodding off. He’s only startled from his drowsy demeanour when his mother clears her throat.

“Presenting: Miss Beatrice Marietta von Fürstenberg-Agnelli, accompanied by her fiance, Mr Blaise Efe Giovanni Zabini.”

Bitty steps into the spotlight, her face as impassive as a runway model. She’s dressed in a sleeveless, scoop-neck floor-length organza dress, the material of the skirt parted in a slit that runs up the length of her leg. The sheer bodice is decorated in tiny clear crystals that twinkle in the light along with Pansy’s Harry Winston necklace.

“Beatrice recently completed her studies at the prestigious Beauxbatons Academy of Magic and is a newly inducted board member of the Society for Distressed Witches. She enjoys charity work, gardening, and spending time volunteering for her soon-to-be mother-in-law at the Wizarding Wireless Network. Beatrice’s life goals are to develop her own charity organisation, start a family, and continue to expand her volunteer initiatives. Please assist me in warmly welcoming Miss Beatrice Marietta von Fürstenberg-Agnelli,” Narcissa announces from her podium, a smile on her face that Draco knows is forced as she claps along with the audience.

Draco refuses to clap.

“Oh, what a deb’s delight,” he hears the older Rowle woman beside him praise.

He watches as Blaise takes Bitty’s hand at the top of the grand, sweeping marble staircase to lead her down the rich, red, velvet-covered steps to join the other debs queued along the massive dancefloor.

Draco officially mentally checks out, instead tossing back several glasses of champagne despite the judgemental looks from the people sat at his table. Announcing the remaining debs flies by, as well as their first dance. He’s had enough of this farce of a happy event and he’s just tipsy enough to not care about his manners. He snorts and jeers as certain couples pass by him. He can tell that half of these débutante are high off their rockers, Bitty included. Since the end of the first dance, Blaise has been shooting him short, nervous glances from across the ballroom.

Draco is standing off to the side of the dancefloor trying to decide if leaving now without greeting his mother and Dany is worth the possibility of a tersely-worded owl later, when suddenly bangs of Apparition start sounding off around him. He’s temporarily blinded by a dizzying, flashing blur of scarlet and gold before everything becomes still.

When he regains his equilibrium, five Aurors are standing before him with their wands pointed at his chest.

“Oh, you are all so late!” Bitty exclaims, approaching the group of Aurors surrounding Draco.

There’s a collective gasp going off around them and Draco hears a glass crash to the floor. He watches with growing horror as Bitty’s lips tug into a wide, pleased smile, her dark eyes glinting maliciously as Gibbons holds Draco’s hands behind his back and another searches his pockets for his wand. His voice is stuck in his throat and for a wild moment Draco wonders if the Aurors have also Silenced him.

“Bitty,” he finally chokes out. “What have you—”

“Draco Lucius Malfoy, we are arresting you under the suspicion of larceny, breaking and entering, and animal endangerment. You do not have to say anything. But, it may harm your defence if you do not mention, when questioned, something which you later rely on in front of the Wizengamot. Anything you do say may be given in evidence,” Auror Gibbons says as Bitty begins to laugh.

Blaise is suddenly at Bitty’s side, his eyes wide and wild with shock as he stares between them. “Bitty, what’s the meaning of this?”

“You were only great fun for a moment and nothing more,” she says, her gaze hateful and trained on Draco. “My God, Draco. Are you so selfish that you’d let honest people like myself and my family suffer under your terrible mistakes? Did you really think I was going to sit back and let you ruin my family’s good name with your stupid antics? Do you know who I _am?_ To think I would let your whorish mother, a Malfoy, outbid an Angelli! You’re insane.”

Bitty scowls. “That’s right, the board knows all about you, Draco. They know what you’ve done to _our_ people, and I’m sorry to say that we simply can’t be associated with a common criminal.” She leans in to press her lips against Draco’s ear. “I always did say you come with too big of a competition pool, _mia dolce metà_. And my poor Blaise shouldn’t have to be a part of it. He shouldn’t have to choose between his affection for me or his lust for you. Thank you for satisfying his curiosity, but I can’t have you around anymore. I hope you enjoy Azkaban with your father, Draco.”

She kisses his cheek.

Blinded by rage, Draco lunges at her with a howl, escaping from Gibbons’s grasp. Bitty steps back quickly, but Draco’s fingers graze her delicate necklace, tugging away the Winston necklace as an Auror quickly wraps one arm around Draco’s neck, the other under his left armpit, to yank him back from her. Draco cries out and Bitty gasps as several of the sunflower-shaped diamonds scatter across the ballroom floor. The remaining Aurors jump into action, placing themselves between Draco and Bitty.

“Calm down! Calm the _fuck_ down!” the Auror shouts, his choke hold on Draco knocking the breath from him.

Draco gasps when he realises that it’s Andrews. He immediately becomes still in the grasp, his breathing laboured.

“It might not be the 31st, but it seems like you’ve pissed off the wrong Deb, Malfoy,” Andrews hisses in his ear, low enough for only Draco to hear. “That’s fine...I’m happy to start early on you since we got you right where we need you.”

Draco gasps for air, his body shaking frantically, both in anger and fear.

“Andrews, _enough!”_ Draco hears Gibbons snarl.

“Alright then,” Andrews says audibly, easing his grasp on Draco and stepping back.

“Get him out of here!” Bitty roars from behind an Auror. “He tried to hurt me! Look what he did to my necklace!”

Draco draws in a breath, squirming against the tight Bind Gibbons places on his hands before he grips Draco's upper arms and hauls him across the ballroom. Even in his anger, he doesn’t think he would have hurt her. Maybe shaken her a bit...just shaken the life out of her.

Merlin. He’s fucked.

As the group of Aurors parade him through the shocked crowd of Pureblood Society’s elite, cameras begin to flash wildly in Draco’s face and he turns his head away, teeth gnashing. When the photographers begin to block them, Gibbons brandishes her wand.

“You lot need to back off, you’re impeding Auror business!” she shouts.

As they back away, Draco’s able to glimpse the mix of horrified and smug expressions on the people around him. He also catches sight of Theo and Millie, both pale and with stricken expressions across their faces. He passes Pansy, a hand covering her mouth as tears slide down her flushed cheeks, her other hand gripping his mother’s shoulder. His poor mother looks ready to hex everyone around her. Dany is pressed against her other side, whispering fiercely into her ear.

But Draco’s heart doesn’t clench until his gaze finally falls on Harry, standing tall in his Auror regalia at the massive entrance of the ballroom. A hot, irrational flare of shame rips through him, and for a horrifying moment he believes he’s about to faint, each step becoming more laboured. When they approach, Harry’s hands reach out for him. As Gibbons let’s go of him, Andrews grabs him up.

“I’ll take it from here, Andrews,” Harry orders, his voice stern.

“We’re meant to take him in together,” Andrews shoots back, his expression petulant.

“Are you disobeying a direct order?” Harry asks, his voice hard.

“With all due respect, Auror Potter, based on recent news coverage I’ve seen about you two, I have to question your ability to remain unbiased in the proceedings of this suspect,” Andrews challenges, his grip on Draco’s arm tightening.

Draco winces.

Harry’s hard eyes fall to Andrew’s grip before it snaps back up to his face. “I think the last thing the Ministry needs right now is a case of Auror Brutality against a suspect.”

Harry steps menacingly towards Andrews. When Andrews hesitates to ease his grip on Draco, Harry’s face contorts into a twisted, cruel expression.

“Stand down, Andrews,” Harry says coldly. “Gibbons will assist me in escorting Malfoy to the Ministry. The rest of you can stay behind and question some of these on-lookers about what they’ve witnessed here tonight.”

“Yes, Auror Potter,” Gibbons says with a nod as her co-workers also nod along, Andrews reluctantly letting go of Draco and moving along.

When the group of Aurors have dispersed, Harry falls in line beside Draco.

It’s like watching a sickening transformation, how quickly Harry’s hard, fierce exterior melts away to something soft and concerned. Draco’s shocked by it.

“Are you alright?”

At Draco’s incredulous look Harry sighs.

“Right, of course not. This is all so fucked up,” Harry says, running a hand through his wild hair.

“I have nothing to say to any of you,” Draco says, warily eyeing Gibbons.

A dawning look of realisation flickers across Harry’s face.

“I’d recommend that you keep what you say to a minimum, but I trust Gibbons,” Harry says, looking over at the woman.

She nods at Draco.

“Our underground society, remember?” Harry says with a wry smile.

Draco closes his eyes, feeling overwhelming grief down to the marrow of his bones. Bitty’s betrayal is like a spike through the heart and he can’t shake off the anguish for even a moment. It didn’t occur to him that it would be _Bitty_ from the Agnelli family orchestrating all of these dealings. He always knew she’d be dangerous, but he never thought she’d be able to fool him not once, but twice. He doesn’t have the capacity to jest with Harry over his current circumstance when he can’t see how any of this will pan out in his favour.

This. Everything. The war against the Ministry. It’s far from over.

All the secrets, all the pain, all the anger. It’s out in the open now, and Draco knows what that means. Draco’s about to succumb to the repercussions, and he already knows how.

“I’ll feel better once I get the fuck out of here,” Draco says, gaze fixed on the floor before him.

It’s a lie, Draco thinks. Nothing about what he’s queued up to face will ever make him feel better. Marcus and his father are going to make sure he suffers before they kill him.

“He’s right, Auror Potter. We should get him out of here before the paparazzi gathers courage again,” Gibbons says, jabbing her thumb over her shoulder.

Harry nods as he places a warm, reassuring hand on Draco’s shoulder.

“We’ll Side Along,” Harry announces. His hand travels up to cup the back of Draco’s head. “Look at me, Draco,” he says firmly.

Draco pulls his gaze from the floor to meet Harry’s determined eyes.

“We’re in the truth together. Remember that,” Harry says fiercely.

Draco’s face contorts painfully, a grimace twisting at his lips. His eyes burn with unshed tears as he holds Harry’s gaze. He gives an acquiescing nod.

“Good. Here we go, Draco,” Harry says before Draco feels the familiar tug of Apparition.


	11. Chapter 11

_**The Suspect Wore Louboutin:** _

**_How Draco Malfoy’s Warped Robin Hoodism Exposed the Pureblood Elite’s Dirty Little Secrets_ **

**_By Luna Lovegood for the Daily Prophet_ **

**_(originally published in The Quibbler)_ **

_In the film-version of his life, Draco Malfoy (age 22) would already have a book deal and a clothing line named after him. As it stands in our reality, the former Death-Eater turned Junior Prosecutor turned Bad-Boy Vigilante thief has neither._

_What Draco Malfoy has instead, surprisingly, is a conscience._

_Stealing from the filthy rich to give to, well, himself and those within the Ministry of Magic fighting for institutional change, Draco Malfoy has revealed an insidious truth about our current Post-War climate: that freedom from punishment can be sold, bought, and paid for through bribes, threats, and maybe even murder._

_Accused of stealing from some of the most prominent Sacred Twenty-Eight families, it is estimated that Mr Malfoy has accumulated more than 14-million galleons worth of stolen property. The Daily Prophet has confirmed through its own independent investigation that nearly 90% of the objects stolen by Mr Malfoy have a conflicted history. **Please note that all confirmations noted in this article have been verified by a Daily Prophet’s Ministry source, as well as subsequently confirmed by the Public Relations Department of Ministry of Magic itself, upon relentless questioning.** The objects taken and subsequently turned over by Mr Malfoy/”confiscated” by the Ministry through their own investigation are as follows: Muggle haute couture; jewellery (many pieces confirmed as blood diamonds mined from warring zones in Liberia circa 1994); priceless art (confirmed to have been sold and bought through the Black Market); and even a four month old whippet (its owners confirmed to have business dealings with one of Britain’s most notoriously inhumane puppy farms). _

_More importantly, Mr Malfoy has also been collecting an impressive list of Dark family heirlooms at each Pureblood household he’s visited during his short-lived vigilantism. This acquisition of Dark artefacts illuminates the failures of the Ministry of Magic Post-War initiatives to “Drain the Swamp.” The families listed as owners of these artefacts were also listed as households that needed to be thoroughly investigated due to their affiliations with He Who Must Not Be Named’s reign during both wars (1970-1981 and 1995-1998). These investigations were not fully conducted and the Daily Prophet has confirmed, through their Ministry source, that only six families were fully investigated and purged of their Dark artefacts and family heirlooms, after the Second Wizarding War._

_Each artefact collected by Mr Malfoy was immediately and directly sent to the Department of Mysteries (DoM) to explore its cursed magic. Mr Malfoy, whom we now know has a prolific grasp of Ancient Runes and Protective Magic learned from childhood, was able to baffle the DoM by using 5th century Merovingian Dynasty era Runes and protective magic(k). The Daily Prophet is now privy to this strain of magic, as it was not uncovered by the DoM until Mr Malfoy was captured and interrogated within the Ministry’s Detention Area._

_Furthermore, within the Ministry’s investigations, a papertrail of monetary exchanges between the echelon of Ministry officials and prominent Sacred Twenty-Eight families has been brought to light. It is with a heavy heart that the Daily Prophet and Quibbler report that under threat of certain legal sanctions, the details of this report, as well as the names listed in said report, cannot be released to the public. We are committed to freedom of speech and press, but in order to continue to provide you the most up-to-date and relevant information, we will honour this request...for now. What we can inform our readers of, however, is that many of these individuals hold major positions of power within the Ministry, had a direct impact on the elections of the last three years, and their roles within the Second War with He Who Must Not Be Named (though not explored initially after the war as procedure dictated) are now being re-evaluated over four years after its end._

_Mr Malfoy may have initially started this venture with the intention of disrespecting Pureblood tradition and as an attempt to right personal wrongs, but what he ultimately exposed to society at large are the unfair practices afforded to rich, Pureblood authority figures. Many of these individuals have been able to avoid crimes against our society due to ruthless brute force, relation to major crime families overseas, embezzlement of nonprofit organisations, and familial monetary prowess._

_Mr Malfoy is not the perfect vessel to highlight the issues plaguing our society at large. The irony is that despite his actions to call out the Pureblood Elite’s privilege, he is an ex-Death Eater who has benefitted from his wealth and status, and has abused his position as an employee of the Ministry. But as someone from the inside decrying the actions of his community, we must pay attention or else risk history repeating itself with a rebirth of intolerance, hatred, and institutional tyranny._

_Much like our failures in properly confiscating dangerous Dark artefacts Post-War, have we as a community failed young people like Mr Malfoy? Is it time that we acknowledge our lack of compassion and our prejudice that shaped the actions of our youth post-war, while we continuously turned a blind eye to the blatant corruption within the Ministry once again? Why should we hold Mr Malfoy to a higher standard than the factions that continue to perpetuate hatred and an uneven distribution of wealth and power within our own government?_

_Mr Malfoy is not perfect, and we as a healing community of war must acknowledge that fact while showing some compassion and forgiveness towards him. After all, what kind of a second chance or exploration of real rehabilitation could he have been provided while navigating such a spiteful, hateful post-war environment? What chance did he have under the threat of real physical harm? The Ministry knows what they’ve done. Those at the Daily Prophet do, too, and soon, so will the public._

_[This story is continued on Page 2 along with a full biography on Draco Lucius Malfoy]._

_\---_

Draco scurries to the corner of his cell when the doors swing open, the dim light from the corridor filling the dark room and burning his eyes.

The Aurors refuse to give him a moment of respite, instead dragging Draco from the damp, stone cell that’s been his home in the Ministry’s Detention Area on Level Ten for a little over a month now. Marcus, Andrews and Edward may not have been able to murder Draco on the 31st because of Bitty’s interference, but they've been able to keep Draco in solitary confinement for a month now despite efforts to get him out. They'd wanted to keep Draco caged, broken, and most of all, silent.

During the first few days of Draco’s incarceration, Harry had released a redacted copy (sans polaroids) of the dossier to the only person and publication he could trust—Luna Lovegood for the _Quibbler_.

When her original piece had caught the attention of the _Daily Prophet_ , she'd been able to release it to a wider audience, but the fact that it had gone through the _Quibbler_ first had lost it some credibility. When Flint and several other Pureblood families with something to lose heard that Luna was about to publish an article about the families with Dark artefacts stolen, they had rained down legal hell on Luna, her publication, and the _Daily Prophet_ due to the contents not being _verified_. This legal shield protected the Flints from having their names dropped in connection to the dossier and so Luna hadn't been allowed to publish the main details of the dossier, or names at all. She, apparently, had barely scratched the surface, her article considered typical nonsensical musings and conspiracies from a Lovegood.

Draco hasn’t read it yet, but Harry, of course, had offered himself up to go public as a credible source, a somewhat whistleblower to the shadow government and crimes happening within the Ministry. When Harry had mentioned it the first time, Draco had gone crazy with anger and paranoia. There was no way he was going to allow Harry to put a target on his back, larger than the one he already carries around. When it had been just the idea of releasing the dossier anonymously to the media, Draco had supported that, but if they needed to attach a face to the story to make it verifiable— well, the risk had just been too great. There had to be another way.

And so, Draco had remained in Detention, awaiting a trial for his vigilantism, a trial that will surely be skewed against him.

Grime has started to collect in his hair and under his nails. The moment Draco had entered holding, he'd been stripped of his tuxedo, searched, and had his magical signature documented. It was like a trip down memory lane, once again suffering through the Aurors’ cavity search and the ghastly, scratchy grey-wool material they call a prisoner’s uniform.

Now, Draco’s happy that the Aurors have finally retrieved him from the cold stone-room, and not just because he’s suspicious that the filthy single mattress on the ground has bed bugs, but because he hasn’t received a visitor or left that room in about a month. As they drag him on weak legs down the corridor, Draco moans as a slit of sunlight falls across his face from the charmed windows high above. The escorting Aurors yank him away when he tries to soak in the blissful caress of warmth. He’s never wanted to stand in direct sunlight so badly before. It seems as if the Magical Maintenance Department only enchants the windows in the corridor to give off a hint of sun, whereas in his cell, Draco is faced with total darkness.

When he’s in his cell, he’s gifted with shifting shadows brought on by twilight. They fill his cell every second of every day and he desperately wishes he could embrace their dancing shapes sometimes. On his best days, they morph into the people he loves: Pansy, Theo, Blaise, or Millie. On his worst of days, they’re Bitty, Marcus, Andrews. In his absolute darker moments, they’re Lucius, a manic grin on his face as he tells Draco, “Soon, my son. We’ll be together soon.”

He rationalises that these shadows are just manifestations of his grief and that there’s still some sanity left in him, but what little of his sanity is left he questions. Sometimes he forgets what he’s doing here in this cell, until the shadows ask him why he allowed pain and evil in his life all over again, why he spoiled his second chance, why he refuses to bash his head against the stone wall and finally end his miserable life. For a month, he’s accepted the fact that this is how his life is meant to be: trapped within four stone walls with nothing but hateful shadows and terrifying whispers in his head.

Draco’s grateful that Harry never visits in these shadows. No. Never shadows. He’s on the outside making sure people don’t come and murder Draco in his sleep. Harry is the dart of sunlight that kisses his face as he moves through the corridor. Never the dark.

The room the Aurors push him into after removing his Bind doesn’t have a charmed window, unfortunately, just half a dozen lit sconces. He squints in the somewhat bright light. This room is much warmer than his cell and he’s not shivering like usual. It has a rickety wooden table and two chairs, one currently occupied by a portly man that Draco recognises as his solicitor. They’ve only met three times within the first week of Draco’s detention.

Originally Pansy’s solicitor on retainer, Edward Simmons is well-known for defending people the Ministry sides against but the public lauds. Woman kills abusive husband? Simmons is on the case. A man made terminally-ill due to working decades in what’s now been confirmed as a toxic wasteland? Simmons is front and centre. Ex-Death Eater, ex-Junior Prosecutor turned vigilante thief? Simmons is here for it. It’s rare for guilty parties to have representation like Simmons in front of the Wizengamot, but great minds think alike and Draco’s happy that Pansy isn’t taking any chances with the Wizengamot on Draco’s behalf. If anyone can help him, it’s Simmons.

As he takes his seat he’s startled to find that Harry is also in the room, pressed into one shadowy corner, arms crossed against his broad chest. Draco hasn’t seen him since his first week of detention, their conversations at each short visit always ending the same miserable way—Draco begging Harry not to go to the media as the verifying source of the dossier.

Draco smiles weakly at his... _Auror? Friend? Boyfriend?_ At Harry.

“I suppose I should take the lack of a warm welcome as a bad sign?” Draco asks with a lopsided smile. “How’s my mother?”

“She’s fine. We’ve set her up with extra security. She’s upset that the Ministry refuses to let her see you. Dany has tried to pull strings to get you out of solitary confinement, but so far the Ministry is blocking all efforts,” Simmons says with a shake of his head. “It’s inhumane, what they’re doing to you, and it will be brought up in our defence. Do they even let you out for the standard hour?”

“No. I’m in my cell all day, every day. It’s always so very dark,” he says, voice rough and barely above a murmur from disuse, his gaze still stuck on Harry.

Harry hasn’t acknowledged him at all.

“I have to tell you, Mr Malfoy, that we are a split community it seems,” Simmons says, opening the briefcase set between them. He pulls out a copy of _the Daily Prophet_. “The media is lauding your actions while the Ministry continues to condemn them. Nothing I haven’t seen before, but honestly, I’m afraid to say that the outcome can go either way. I remembered to bring a copy of the Lovegood article with me this time.”

“Oh. I see,” Draco says, slowly pulling _the Daily Prophet_ towards him.

The title—”The Suspect Wore Louboutin”—makes him smirk as he tilts his head.

“At least they used a photo that captures my good side. Don’t you think so, Harry?” Draco asks, lifting the newspaper in Harry’s direction.

The photo in question is Draco with his hands in a Bind behind his back, dressed in his lush tuxedo with his hair falling in his face as he scowls at the camera.

“Are you trying to wind me up?” Harry asks from his spot in the corner.

“I don’t know, will doing so finally make you look at me?” Draco snaps, his eyes burning at the disconcerting pulse of energy beating between them.

It’s been too long since they’ve seen each other. Draco knows it’s because Harry’s working hard on the outside to get Draco out and to find a publication that will touch the dossier, but he’s still angry. It isn’t fair that Harry won’t look at him.

When Harry finally drags his eyes up to meet his gaze, Draco sticks his nose up in the air. “See, was that so hard?”

“If you would just let me—” Harry rushes out.

“No. For the hundredth time, no,” Draco murmurs. “Why can’t you respect my wishes?”

“Because the alternative is ridiculous,” Harry scowls.

“It won’t do any good,” Draco shoots back.

“Mr Malfoy. If I may interrupt you there. If Auror Potter is willing to present these findings as a credible, investigated source, we may be able to get this case thrown out due to prejudice within the Wizengamot.”

“And I said I don’t need him to do it. You’ve done enough without them also trying to kill you, Harry. I think it’s time I take my chances, you know? Leave the nest. Spread my wings. Strike out on my own,” Draco jests.

“How are you able to have a laugh right now? After everything we’ve all been through, are you seriously going to fucking crack a joke right now?” Harry snarls, stepping forward from his spot in the corner.

Draco flinches when he’s finally able to see all of Harry. If Draco, who hasn’t seen his reflection in a month thought he looked bad, he has nothing on Harry. Harry’s complexion is washed out, with deep, violent purple bags under his eyes. He looks like he’s lost weight, too.

“Are you really going to fuck off now? _Now,_ Draco? Because of your misplaced pride?” Harry asks angrily.

“No. Not pride,” Draco says, shaking his head, shoulders sagging. “I fucked up, Harry.”

“No,” Harry whispers. “No, you didn’t, and you shouldn’t throw your entire life away out of bloody fear, Draco. Let me continue to protect you.”

“I _need_ you to protect my loved ones while I can’t. I need you to protect _yourself_ ,” Draco says quietly.

“I promise you I’m keeping your family safe. I’m staying safe.”

“Good. And it’ll stay that way as long as we don’t move against the Flints.”

Harry sighs in frustration. “Draco. I can’t see that as a reasonable solution to our problems and neither should you. This is the Ministry getting a taste of its own medicine. We have to go through with this, otherwise, what was all this for? All these sacrifices? All this _pain?_ ”

Draco is silent for a moment as he peers down at his grimy hands before drawing in a phlegmy breath. The time spent in isolation has caused something to break in him. Everything hurts. There are voices warring in his head, telling him he doesn’t deserve to leave his cell, that he doesn’t deserve to ever feel sunlight again because he ruined his life, his mother’s life, his friend’s lives, and Harry’s. All of this started because of him. It doesn’t matter if he was trying to prove a point with the Pureblood Elite, he fucked himself by doing it, and his only redeeming quality is that he’s taking the brunt of the blame so his friends can live freely.

“We _have_ to see this through,” Harry urges.

“I told you that a second chance was wasted on me. Are you sure you want to go to bat for me on a third one?”

“Yes.” Harry moves to kneel beside him. “Draco...Draco, remember what I said? Anything dead coming back to life _hurts_.”

Harry places a hand on Draco’s knee to squeeze consolingly. The ache in Draco’s chest is suffocating, so very full and alive. This time with warmth over the spikey pain, both feelings are so overwhelming he has to hunch over slightly to ease the discomfort. He wonders if learning how to deal with these warring feelings is part of what Harry means by coming alive. He lifts one shaky hand to stroke through Harry’s unruly locks. His whole body seems to sigh with relief from just touching the other man.

“Out of everything that you still need to overcome, the world of hurt still waiting, this doesn’t have to be a part of the process you go through alone. Please,” Harry urges, his voice strong enough to cut through Draco’s fog of misery. “Let me be in the truth with you.”

“If we find a way to safely expose the Ministry, Draco, it doesn’t matter how many members on the Wizengamot are a part of Flint’s crew, we will arrest every single person implicated in the dossier. If our current political climate is anything to go by, you’ll get the chance to walk out of here not only a free man, but a hero,” Simmons says, his eyes solemn as he bows his head slightly.

Draco’s hand stills in Harry’s hair.

He thinks about the impermanence of his life, of the inevitable changes he’s suffered through, of the pain and betrayal he’s experienced, and so many of his own personal failures. All this unnecessary pain. Some came, some left, and so much more still remains. All good things end and maybe one day, he’ll be able to look back on this time and understand why it all had to happen this way.

Draco wants to be remembered as someone good and as someone whole, in spite of all his mistakes. He doesn’t want to be remembered as a master in acting and incognito play. He wants to be someone that doesn't need to muster thunder and lightning when he can, instead, summon a calming tide to wash away the painful inadequacy and meaninglessness of his life. He doesn’t want to _feel_ this grief anymore...he doesn’t want to be _alone_ anymore. He wants to stand tall after all of this. He’s been so lonely, living in this dark, miserable place in his head for the last three years. He just wants to be happy.

Happy.

Harry makes it sound possible. Harry makes Draco believe, just a little bit, that he deserves it. However it may come about.

He runs his fingers through Harry’s hair once more. “I’m no hero. I’ll never be one and I never want to be called one, ever. But. Okay Harry,” Draco says, his voice cracking. “Only on one condition.”

—-

All eyes are on him in Courtroom Ten.

It’s crowded with the public and the media. His mother is there, struggling to remain impassive instead of anguished, sat in the stands beside Dany. Blaise is perched a few seats away. Draco is too exhausted to decipher what the space between them may mean. A few people down from them are Pansy, Theo, and Millie, their expressions solemn. From his place, Draco can see how Pansy’s hands shake as she brushes a strand of black hair from off her forehead.

On the opposite end of the room is his former boss, Chief Prosecutor Watson. Watson stands tall and confident in his black robes, his reddish-brown hair parted neatly on the left. He looks at Draco as if he’s little more than a spot of gum under his three-hundred galleon shoes. Draco cringes as he takes his seat on the hard wooden chair in the centre of the Wizengamot floor.

Simmons places a heavy, reassuring hand on his shoulder and stands beside him. It’s too bright in this room as the flashes of camera light begin to sound off around him, hurting his eyes. The Aurors had finally let him shower and Simmons was able to bring him a fresh suit from home that Pansy pulled out for him. He’s not surprised that after a month his clothes no longer fit him properly. The three meals a day the Ministry provides him couldn’t properly feed a bloody rodent. His thoughts drift. He's thinking about how the material of his suit feels foreign against his skin, the scratchy material of his wool uniform the only sensation he’s felt for the last month, when he’s viciously pulled from his thoughts as the room grows quiet. Not only does the Minister for Magic enter, but the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, Josephine Bleaux-Mormont, enters behind him.

“Are they meant to be front and centre like this?” Draco mumbles to Simmons, his chin jutting towards the two settling on the benches for the Wizengamot.

Simmons leans in, a quizzical lift to his brow before it smooths over. “Oh, I wouldn’t worry too much about that, son. It’s all in our favour…”

“I don’t understand why Bleaux-Mormont is here, though,” Draco says. He fidgets in his seat, thinking about the threats Marcus had made against the woman. “It isn’t safe.”

“Unfortunately, no one is safe today, son, which is why we must keep a vigilant eye on the happenings around us.”

“Right, of course,” Draco says quietly, his hands clenched into fists as they rest in his lap.

The members of the Wizengamot begin to flood in, the silver-embroidered _W_ gleaming on their plum-coloured robes. Draco’s blood runs cold when he sees Edward Flint slip onto the public stands, two unknown burly men accompanying him. Flint senior seems to be staring someone down in the opposite stands, and Draco follows his line of vision to see a sweaty, nervous Thaddeus Davis take his seat.

“Have you heard from Harry?” Draco asks.

Simmons is about to respond when the exiting Chief Warlock Mormont stands, his wand pointed at his throat as he coughs several times.

“Yes, yes. Silence, please, everyone!” The room grows quiet and Mormont nods. “This is a case like no other, high-profiled and followed by many publications and media outlets. While the public deserves to be here in witnessing these proceedings, the Ministry of Magic’s Wizengamot asks that you remain respectful throughout these proceedings. That includes, but is not limited to, photography and the manner of which you capture said photos; any and all kind of jeering; any and all kind of questioning--there will be no questions accepted from the public; and finally, there will be no harassment of the family or friends of the accused present today. Anyone in violation will be fined up to one-thousand galleons or thirty days in Azkaban. We will first hear opening arguments for the Defendant, and then proceed onto Chief Watson’s response before allowing the Wizengamot to present their questions. Thank you.”

Mormont sits back in his seat.

Simmons strolls to the centre of the courtroom, his pristine black robes swishing about his legs as he turns about the room.

“Esteemed members of the Wizengamot,” he starts, his voice booming. “I’m here today not only to shine light on the unfair treatment that my client, Mr Draco Lucius Malfoy, has suffered at the hands of your so-called judicial due process, but to introduce you to a man who has been dealt a most biased hand since the end of the war. He has suffered indignities no person should have to, what with being faced with constant ridicule in his everyday life, and kept in solitary confinement for over a month now. All this cruel and unusual punishment to keep silent a much more insidious crime that my client has tried to unearth— that the Ministry is corrupt and has perpetuated this corruption for years! The Ministry has allowed Dark artefacts to go unchecked within the homes of many families, some of whom the Wizengamot are related to! My client ultimately exposed the crimes so many employees of the Ministry committed within the eyes and ears of the Wizengamot. He is a hero. It is my job today to exonerate my client of any wrongdoing and show that he was instead, trying to do the right thing. Thank you.”

As Simmons makes his way back to Draco, Watson takes the centre of the room.

“I’ll keep this short—Draco Lucius Malfoy is a thief. He abused his power as an officer of the Ministry when he misled my offices and the Auror Department in their investigation against the break-ins of which he is now standing trial for. Let’s not be fooled here. Draco Malfoy is not a hero. He’s a criminal, and he tried to humiliate his peers and some of you fine people in this government. He needs to be punished for his actions. Thank you.”

“Mr Simmons. What do you say about his remaining on the case despite being involved in the crimes?” asks one of the Wizengamot members, Pierce.

“Mr Malfoy had every intention of turning himself in. What I have here in my hands is a copy of a letter Mr Malfoy sent to Chief Prosecutor Watson the day before his arrest to recuse himself as Junior Prosecutor from the case.”

“Is this true, Watson?” Pierce’s sharp voice rings out in the courtroom.

“I acknowledge that the letter in question was sent the evening before Mr Malfoy was apprehended. However, he did not detail his _true_ reasons for removing himself from the case,” the Chief Prosecutor drawls.

“Mr Malfoy will provide testimony that he was planning to turn himself in with the stolen property before Ms Agnelli called the Aurors,” Simmons counters.

“This does not excuse his crimes,” Watson says.

“But his testimony does indeed show that there was bias!”

Watson snorts. “What bias? Mr Malfoy is a product of the very privilege he seeks to destroy, and now, ironically, is relying on to get out of this mess.”

“Mr Malfoy’s intentions were to shine light on—”

“Enough!” barks Ahmed Shafiq. He stands, his face apoplectic as he glares down at Draco. “I refuse to sit here and listen to this nonsense! Do you know what you’ve done to my family? The pain you’ve caused my _wife?_ ”

“Shafiq, this is most improper!” exclaims another Wizengamot member.

“Shut your mouth, Ainsworth! This cretin has done everything in his power to disrespect this Ministry and its esteemed members,” Ahmed shoots back.

“You mean he’s done everything to bring to light _your_ disrespect of this Ministry!” Member Gresham shoots back, several other members nod along.

“I have committed no crimes,” Ahmed says, turning on his heel to face Ainsworth.

“Are you sure, Shafiq?” Madame Odgen shouts from the back of the benches. “Your family should be under investigation!”

“My family? Says the matriarch of a family with shady oil dealings!” Ahmed shouts.

“Malfoy has also hurt my family! He’s stolen precious antiques!” Madame Rowle cries out.

“Antiques we’ve now discovered to be _Dark,_ ” Ainsworth says.

Madame Rowle sinks into her seat. “I have no knowledge of any Dark antiques, just that we’re missing precious jewellery.”

“Ah, yes, the jewellery with the conflict diamonds your family is so fond of,” says another member, Jacobson.

There’s a cacophony of shouting and screaming in the Wizengamot stands then, members shouting the crimes Draco has committed against their family, while others accuse their colleagues of nepotism, bribery, and prejudice.

“DECORUM!” shouts Chief Warlock Mormont, to no avail.

“Just shut up! Shut up! _SHUT UP!_ ”

At this new shrill outburst, the room grows quiet.

Draco looks up to see Pansy standing in the benches, her pale face flushed and tears streaming down her cheeks as she twists the hem of her blouse in her hands. Theo and Millie try to pull her down, but she lunges forward, her hands wrapping around the railing.

“You have to listen! It wasn’t supposed to _be_ like this! It wasn’t supposed to end up this way, please! It was just to show them all! These families are fucked up! They’ve _fucked up_ and Draco showed you, and I—”

“I admit it!” Draco cries out, standing to his feet. “I admit in open court to everything! I started this venture as a means to humiliate the upper echelons of Pureblood society!”

Ahmed flops back into his seat, a satisfied smirk on his face. Pansy, her expression broken, finally allows Theo and Millie to tug her back into her seat. As Pansy begins to sob, Millie wraps her in a hug. Draco can see the stricken looks on his mother’s and Dany’s faces.

“My family has committed a multitude of sins,” Draco starts, his throat tightening with emotion as he looks out onto the stands. “My Father…Lucius. Lucius thought he was doing the right thing for his family. He thought it was the right thing to uphold Blood Purist ideals. He thought he could survive the Dark-Vol- _Vol_ - _Voldemort’s_ wrath by allowing me to take the Mark. And I took it willingly. I had a choice, take the Mark or lose my family. And I desperately wanted to protect my family. But as the war went on, I realised that everything I had ever been taught about Blood Purity and Vol-Voldemort was all a lie. I hated myself for believing the things Lucius taught me. But the Light won. The war was over.

“Then, it seemed like life just moved on, like nothing happened. Purebloods forgot that they committed atrocious acts mere months ago. Instead, they began to host parties and preach about tolerance in public, while continuing to whip their house-elves and throw around the M word. And then they expect us, their children, to accept these jaded white lies of change, of a new-normal. As the social elite, we have to accept that we're just stumbling through our charmed little existence in a society that offers us worldly comforts with no consequences at all. We’re born into this kind of utopian world as little monsters, shielded from real life, and then we go on to breed other little monsters who will also have this same charmed, ignorance-is-bliss life. No one in our community prepares us for the immense loneliness, the fear of isolation, or the pressure to be perfect. No one prepares you to face your demons in the real world, if you ever do venture out into it, because they simply never had to do it themselves. Nothing ever changes.

“And I was tired. I was so bloody tired of feeling like I wasn’t alive, barely existing as I listlessly made my way through an unfeeling, stagnant world. I'm aware of my privilege and what it's afforded me in life, but I resent it every single day. All the parties, the polite conversations, the lies and the boredom— it was soul crushing. So I admit that I started the break-ins as a means to embarrass some of your families, but it quickly turned into a matter of life or death. See, while you all were hoarding your Dark artefacts and still promoting Blood Purity behind closed doors and during your weekly luncheons, you made it okay for evil to fester once more. You were silent and complacent as people, children even, were murdered once again in the name of power and Blood Purity. You gave this evil your time, your energy, and your money.”

“And what evil do you speak of, Mr Malfoy?” Chief Warlock Mormont asks.

“Why, the evil that’s infiltrated the Ministry since the end of the war, Sir,” Draco says casually.

The room is once again stirring with murmurs and the flashing of camera light.

“We’re getting off course, Chief Warlock,” Watson says. “Mr Malfoy is trying to distract us by bringing up unverified, libellous, and negligent gossip!”

“That’s not true,” Draco says, now standing in the middle of the courtroom. “ _I’m_ the verifiable source!”

The people in the public stand gasp, the rise of voices and shouts growing at Draco’s admission. Draco looks up to meet the gaze of Shacklebolt, who nods at him, an approving smile on his face. It was Draco’s one condition about someone taking responsibility for the dossier. Instead of Harry going at it alone, Draco would admit to it as well.

“I stole that dossier from Edward Flint’s house during one of my break-ins. I have photographic proof of the actual theft!” Draco says smugly, thinking about the images Andrews had hung in Draco’s home office the night he broke into his townhouse.

What was threatening, then, is now Draco’s proof that will finally nail the Flints, with nearly every single Wizard media outlet and publication in the room. “The Flints have been infiltrating the Ministry with their influence since the end of the war, and I have proof that many of you here on the Wizengamot are involved in these treasonous affairs, Chief Prosecutor Watson included!”

“He’s right!” shouts another voice.

Draco spins on his heels to see Harry bursting through the doors of the courtroom, a Binded Andrews floating before him, and a small army of Aurors behind him. They flood the floor of the Courtroom, their wands aimed, posed and ready. Watson immediately lifts his hands as an Auror points their wand at him. Gibbons has Marcus Flint marching beside her, her hands gripping his shoulder and Binded hands as she presents him to the Wizengamot.

“My team of specialised Aurors have been investigating the infiltration of Dark wizards within the Ministry since the end of the war,” Harry starts, flicking his wand to release Andrews from levitation.

The man goes falling to the ground with a thump and a groan.

“We were granted approval by the Minister for Magic and the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, both present here today to support these claims. Draco Malfoy is right in validating the existence of this dossier. I have seen it myself and it contains proof of embezzlement, blackmail, murder, and even the harbouring of escaped Death Eaters. And my team also presents today some of the culprits involved in these scandals. Aurors, no less.” Harry motions towards Andrews as another Auror deposits a Binded Smith next to him.

“YOU SON OF A BITCH!”

Edward Flint is now standing, his face twisted up in anger. “My stupid son should have killed you when he had the chance!” he shouts, pulling his wand free from his sleeve and taking aim at Draco.

“Stupefy!” Harry shouts, narrowly missing the senior Flint as he ducks. “Draco, stay down! STAY DOWN!”

The next few minutes are a terrifying frenzy of chaos.

“Protect the Minister!” someone shouts.

Draco watches as Bleaux-Mormont dives to protect the Minister from a stray hex. She falls out of sight, taking Shacklebolt down with her. The members of the Wizengamot scurry to exit their stand, some of them literally crawling over each other to avoid being struck by stray curses. Draco watches in horror as someone shoots the Killing Curse at Wizengamot member Jacobson. He falls over the railing of the stands and lands a mere metre away from Draco with a sickening thud.

There’s so much screaming and frantic shouting as lights flash, both from cameras and wands, that Draco has to duck and cover his ears for a moment. The public stands are in an uproar as people try to escape the courtroom at once, dodging hexes and spells to make it unharmed out the door. Draco loses sight of his family and friends as Harry pushes him down to the ground, missing a jet of green light from Edward Flint.

Draco scrambles to his knees to see that Simmons is running towards the exit, not to escape, but to Stupefy the escaping Chief Prosecutor.

“Father!” Marcus shouts in panic as Harry finally takes down Edward.

Harry only has a moment of rest before he’s once again ambushed by an onslaught of hexes from other Aurors, Aurors that Draco figures are in Flint’s pocket. Draco feels helpless as he ducks under a table, frantically searching the ground for a lost wand so he can help.

To the right of him, he hears Gibbons cry out as she tries to wrestle with a now-free Marcus Flint. Flint gains the upper hand when he elbows Gibbons in the face and snatches her wand from her.

Everything slows down.

“I'll fucking kill you!” Marcus shouts.

Draco screams, scrambling from under the table. He doesn’t think. He just _moves_ as Marcus's arm cuts wide as he throws a hex towards Harry, who spins on his heel.

Draco leaps from the floor towards Harry and takes the hex to the stomach.

 _“Draco!”_ Harry screams.

Pain.

So, so much _pain._

Draco thinks he can hear high-pitched screaming from all around him as he falls to the ground. He realises it’s coming from him. And then nothing but choking.

He knows that he’s choking on his final breaths as he sees images of his horrific adolescence, the beauty of Hogwarts, the war, his mum, Pansy, Millie, Theo, Blaise, and finally _Harry._ All the beautiful, wonderful important moments he’ll miss with Harry—all of these thoughts and images fly across his mind’s eye.

He doesn’t want to die like this.

No. Not like this, please. Not in this grotesque manner, sprawled in the middle of Courtroom Ten as his blood pools around him.

He was so _close_ , so fucking _close_ to getting out of this alive, of healing and coming back to life. He never thought he’d achieve happiness after so much suffering and poor decision-making. He was right on the cusp of it. It’s not fair.

He chokes back a sob as his fingers numbly pick at what he believes to be a gaping hole in his abdomen. He vaguely registers the coppery taste of blood in his mouth as he struggles to breathe, cursing his own stupidity and brash behaviour. But he would do it again, he would do it again a million times if it would save Harry.

 _Oh, God. Oh, Harry…_ Draco thinks frantically.

He can hear the scuffles and the shouts as Harry apprehends Marcus.

Draco’s line of vision is full of Harry now as he leans over him, his face drained of colour, his mouth moving. But Draco has no idea what he’s saying, he’s too focused on the blood dripping from Harry’s left nostril. He wants so badly to wipe it away and heal what he knows is a broken nose.

Draco wishes he could tell Harry to please take care of his mother, because she’ll be devastated that Draco’s gone, and so will Pansy and the rest. They’ll look to Harry for consolation, and he needs Harry to be good to them. Most of all, he needs Harry to be good to himself, and keep on living and continuing the work they started—see it through to the very end.

 _Didn’t I read somewhere that you hear rushing water when it’s time?_ Draco thinks.

He doesn’t hear anything now—it’s a deafening silence, sharp and terrifying as the air in his lungs begin to dissipate. All Draco can feel is ice, as if it is all over his body. He’s just so bloody cold. He’s never been this cold before in his entire life. He tries to tell Harry he’s freezing. He can feel his lips move but no sound comes. Draco thinks all he needs is to rest, just a little. If he closes his eyes, he’ll be fine, just a rest up before Harry’s team gets everything settled, that’s all. He can feel Harry curl a hand around his shoulder and shake him.

“Don’t you _fucking_ _dare_ close your eyes! _”_ Harry cries.

Draco shivers as sounds come rushing back to him all at once, and he opens his eyes to see Harry’s bloodless face once more. He can hear Harry’s whimpers and cries, the heavy footsteps of people running, and so much _shouting_.

“You better hang on, Draco, don’t you close your eyes _again_ ,” Harry hisses, his hand now crushing Draco’s.

Draco can _feel_ it, and he tries to squeeze back.

“The Healers are nearly here, Draco.” Harry’s voice sounds high-pitched, almost frantic. “You have to hold on, Draco. For your mum, and Pansy, and your friends, and our mission, and, and…and for _me_ , please don’t leave _me_. Draco. Please hold on for _me_ —”

Draco can feel his lips moving, but his throat doesn’t work. He’s just so tired, and he wants to tell Harry, so desperately, that he’s sorry. He just needs to fall asleep, just for a short while.

“—and we love you so much, Draco. I do. _I do._ Please, I love you.”

_I love you too, Harry._

With that thought, Draco finally accepts the sweet embrace of darkness.

\-----

What a difference a year makes.

Immediately after Harry had convinced Rita Skeeter to self-publish contents of the dossier and her own musings and implications, the public had snatched up thousands of copies, with thousands more being requested for reprint almost daily. With the truth completely out, Harry’s Auror team had made the arrests of over one-hundred Ministry employees, and the hold that the Flints had been cultivating within the Ministry had collapsed.

Marcus and Edward Flint had each been sentenced to Life in Azkaban for murder, domestic terrorism, embezzlement, and treason. Andrews had been killed during the fight in Courtroom Ten. The Agnelli’s had fled back to Italy to avoid being charged for attempted murder and embezzelment. Bitty’s prompt, unexpected departure had left Blaise heartbroken, and he'd tried to turn to Pansy in his moment of distress. Pansy, being a good friend, had consoled him but refused to take him back when he'd asked. Now, a year later, Blaise is dating Tracey, who'd recovered from her injuries, had gone back to complete her Auror training and had joined the Corps. Pansy is now engaged to one of her clients, the _Muggle_ artist Rodrigo.

Kingsley Shacklebolt had stepped down as Minister for Magic, and the remaining members of the Wizengamot had promoted Josephine Bleaux-Mormont as interim Minister for Magic. It had been a historical moment: the last time the Wizengamot had a say on the Minister for Magic. A public, general election was scheduled to take place in the following Summer, and several of the Wizengamot seats were up for filling-in during the election.

Robards had been promoted to Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, and Harry had been promoted to interim Head Auror, the youngest in history. His full transition as a provisional Head Auror to permanent rested on his close mentorship under Robards for one year, and the general election in the Summer.

Harry admits that the system the Ministry is rolling out is one that all of the departments have agreed to, in consultation with major charity organisations, St Mungo’s, and local political activists. Harry thinks it’s a start, bridging together the community with the government. It’s at least a system the majority of people in the Wizarding World want to see. Only time will tell its effectiveness, but Harry is determined to ensure the Ministry gets it right without the excessive politicking and cheating.

When Draco had woken up in a hospital bed at St Mungo’s, confused and terribly sore, Harry had been asleep beside the bed, clinging onto Draco’s hand. From the moment his eyes had fluttered open, after several days of unconsciousness, things had begun to change for Draco. He'd been found guilty of grand larceny and breaking and entering, but had been sentenced to time-served. Within the same timeframe, he'd been provided the Order of Merlin, First Class for his work in uncovering the Dark artefacts and Ministry scandals. Draco had graciously accepted the award, but not without commenting wryly on the irony of the situation. The only prize that matters to him is being alive, and being alive is like being on fire with love and hope, burning hot and bright. It’s a kind of fire you never want to put out.

He hadn't been offered his job back, and actually, despite being offered better positions within the Ministry, Draco had decided that he’d spent enough of his energy dealing with the Ministry to last him a lifetime. Instead, he’d opened a small legal aid agency in Diagon Alley where he offers advice on anything from legalese to legal advice for perplexed contract holders or individuals dealing with matters of workplace harassment and discrimation. Draco’s found some peace with his new work environment and goals. There are parts of his life that are still painful to deal with.

His relationship with Blaise is still strained. They'd both agreed that that night between them had been unfortunate, but shouldn’t destroy their friendship. But Draco knows it’s easier to say that than live by it. Over the past year, Draco has only seen Blaise a few times, and one of those times was during Narcissa and Dany’s winter wedding. Outside of that event, Draco refuses to attend Pureblood-related parties or even weekend do’s.

Draco had also forgiven Theo for telling Bitty their secret, and now they both attend Muggle NA meetings together twice a month. Draco’s learning to be honest about his brush with addiction; Theo’s learning how to overcome his. And for good reason-- he plans on proposing to Millie as soon as he’s back on his feet.

Draco had closed up the Malfoy townhouse and moved into Grimmauld Place three months after being discharged from hospital. Harry had welcomed him with open arms, even though some of Draco’s renovations to the place drove Harry up the wall a few times. But they love the ability to finally _be_ _together_.

Draco wipes the sweat building up across his forehead with the back of his hand. It’s hot today and he peels the slick, thin cotton material back from his chest as a breeze washes over him. He sighs before returning to plucking out the weeds that are cropping up in his flowerbed.

Gardening has become his go-to mode for self-care. His time in solitary made him realise just how important it is to be serenaded with sunlight.

He’s turned Harry’s rooftop into a grotto of sorts, equipped with spiraling flowerbeds and a nice-sized waterfall pond Draco keeps his beloved koi fish in. In the centre of the garden is a magically widened iron-wrought sun lounge with thick, soft padding. When Draco finishes removing the weeds, he pulls his gloves off, places them in his gardening toolbox before making his way towards the edge of the rooftop. His hands grip the railing as he stares out across Islington. To think, just a year ago he stood on a rooftop and wondered what it would be like to just...jump. What a difference a year makes.

He makes his way towards the lounge chair, throwing himself on it, one arm coming up to fall across his eyes as he draws in several deep, relaxing breaths. It’s quiet up here, the only sound is the flow of water coming from the small waterfall splashing into the pond.

He’s about to doze off when something heavy lands on his stomach, a rough wet tongue licking a stripe across his chin.

“Sprinkles,” Draco chastises, a hand coming up to block the dog’s onslaught of kisses. “Yes, yes! Merlin. I’m awake, you barmy dog…”

He remembers those first few weeks after the trial-- the flurry of press, of well-wishers and, of course, all of the howlers and death-threats from members of Pureblood families under investigation. Draco had kept his chin up. He'd been surprised when he'd received a knock on his townhouse door, Saeed standing on the other side with Sprinkles under his arm.

“Mother never went anywhere without this goddamn dog, but after everything that’s happened, she just can’t look at her the same way. She wanted me to give Sprinkles away to a shelter...I thought you’d want to take her back instead,” Saeed had said, holding the dog out to him.

Draco had taken Sprinkles into his arms, barely concealing his excitement and gratitude as the dog had whimpered and eagerly licked his face. He'd been able to keep her, for good.

“Are you going to stay out here all day?” Harry asks as he climbs the last few steps to reach their small garden.

Draco smiles as he notices the two glasses of lemonade in Harry’s hands. Draco shifts comfortably in his seat, Sprinkles sprawled out beside him, her head resting against his hip as Harry hands him the cold drink.

“Maybe,” Draco says, taking a sip.

Homemade and just perfect. He sets the glass down and looks up. Fat white clouds move lazily in a piercing blue sky. Sunflowers. The smell of soil and green, green grass. He closes his eyes for just a moment, relishing it.

He’s here. He’s alive. He’s breathing. He feels. He’s learning to love himself. He extends his pale arms before him, hands out, unfolding, palms up, and caressed by the sunlight. Draco has been brought back to life, even though the process hurt, even though it nearly killed him.

Harry presses himself against Draco’s other side. Draco watches as Harry’s arms fold behind his head and he closes his eyes, a smile splitting across his sun-kissed face. They sit pressed against each other, not a care about the heat, simply enjoying being next to one another.

After a long while, Harry presses a kiss to Draco’s forehead. “Are you ready to go in, love?” he asks, wrapping his arms around Draco.

Draco inhales sharply as he’s overcome with gratitude and love, so much love for the man beside him.

Draco was provided the chance to start over for good this time. He’s going to take advantage of this rare third opportunity to continue to figure out who he is and what he wants, all while having someone who loves him and encourages him by his side.

Draco has lived in the dark for so long, he’d forgotten what warmth felt like.

He never wants to forget it again.

“No, not yet,” Draco says, tugging Harry in to press a soft kiss to his lips. “Let’s stay in the sun just a bit longer.”

_Real love, ain't that something rare._

_I’m searching for a real love,_

_talking ‘bout real love._

_Real love, yeah..._

_Real love._

_**Super Rich Kids/Frank Ocean** _

**The End.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *The title for the Daily Prophet article was inspired by the actual Vanity Fair article about the real-life Bling Ring!
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed the story <3.

**Author's Note:**

> ***
> 
> This work is part of "Lights, Camera, Drarry" (LCDrarry), a film-, TV- and theatre-inspired Drarry fest.  
>  The creators will be revealed on [tumblr](http://lcdrarry.tumblr.com) and [AO3](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/LCDrarry2020/works) on 15 June 2020.
> 
> Please show your appreciation to the creator with kudos and comments :) Thank you!


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